The Cop and the Criminal
by Furtively Lethargic
Summary: "We never should've met." He didn't know that he would fall in love with her, because if he did, he wouldn't have kidnapped her. She didn't know that she would fall in love with him, because if she did, she wouldn't have tried to track him down. AH
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Night World.

**A/N:** I know I shouldn't be doing this but I can't…help it. I'm gonna delete some of my stories just 'cause I don't have any inspiration for it. At all. And maybe rewrite some of my stories… or just replace them. Hmm, I'll just replace them…eventually. But whatever, I'll write more down there. v.v Hope ya'll enjoy this! ;) Btw, this is **all human**. This is just a figment of my imagination too, just fyi. :)

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><p><strong>The Cop and the Criminal<strong>

**.**

Rashel Jordan pushed her gun back in her holster.

The shooting practice target was still standing, but it has a dozen of holes on it. Two holes on the head, two holes near the solar plexus, a few shots on the neck, and lots of holes by left shoulder. If it were a real crook, the target would've been dead a long time ago. The air inside the steel, gray walls of the shooting range was humid, even though it was sixty five degrees outside. Sweat formed on her forehead and on the back of her neck. Her breathing was deep as she stared at her worn-out practice target.

Training for more than two hours after trying to locate criminals were part of her distractions. Distractions from the death of her friend, Timmy. Sure it happened so many years ago, but Timmy . . . was like a younger brother she never had.

These were also part of her distractions from the death of her mother. Her mother, whom she loved dearly, was shot when she was just five years old. Rashel tried to forget about the blood and everything that happened that day by doing business and training. But she always ends up thinking about that day by the end of everything.

Mother, she thought as she squatted on the ground. Rashel sighed angrily. That monster killed her mother and Timmy. He ruined her life. That man, Hunter Redfern (she later found out as she began to work with the other FBI cops) . . . is one of the most wanted criminals in the world. He killed, stole, raped—he did mostly everything _but_ lived an equal and fair life.

And then, along with the most wanted asshole, was his step-son; John Quinn.

This time, Rashel sighed in an annoyed manner.

John Quinn. She couldn't shake his well-sculpted face off of her mind. Dark hair slightly covering his dark eyes, nice cheekbones, pale skin, lean. He was sly, as implied in his most-wanted profile, and he was sharp.

Sly and sharp. Two characteristics that a criminal must have to be successful. Two characteristics that _he_ has. Although Rashel had never had a face-to-face combat battle with him or Hunter, some of her fellow mates had.

Most of them never made it alive.

And this is why she trains every day. Not only to distract her, but to improve her reflexes and skills. Rashel knows that she's going to have a one-on-one with Hunter (and maybe John) someday. She'll _make_ it happen. Rashel will chase him around the whole damn world just to avenge her mother's and Timmy's untimely death. It was the least she could do for her mother and Timmy.

Rashel sighed again. She pushed herself up from the floor and jogged to her bag—which was by the wall. Her uniform and ID were in her bag, so were her water bottles, phone, and extra ammos. Rashel grabbed her small face towel and wiped the sweat off her face.

"Knock, knock," a voice said from the entrance of the shooting range.

Rashel already knew who the voice was. It was Elliot—one of her friends, and also one of the highest ranked FBI cops. "What's up, Elliot?"

"Just chilling. Although I think you should rest now for tomorrow," he answered. Elliot was a few years older than her, and thin, with intense eyes and little shiny glasses that were always slipping off his nose. Though he looks like a geek, Rashel had seen him handle more than one crook as she rescued some victims two years back.

She simply rolled her green eyes. "Can't. I might as well train for the rest of the night. Tomorrow's probably gonna be _the_ day, you know."

Elliot knew what she meant.

Rashel meant that tomorrow might be the day when she finally catches Hunter Redfern. "By the way," Elliot spoke as she fixed her things, the thought of catching some dinner entering her mind, "I think we may have a lead as to where he-who-shall-not-be-named is."

"Oh? Please enlighten me," she replied as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

Elliot began walking with Rashel out of the training room. "There's been some activity up in New York. The local officers investigated about it but couldn't figure it out. They contacted us and blah, blah, blah. But guess what we found."

She continued to look straight ahead, even though her heart was practically pounding in her ears. "What?"

"Hunter's hair fibers on the woman's clothes," Elliot answered. "It was a challenging investigation—but with Hunter, it's always challenging."

"I'm going to kill him soon," she muttered angrily. That bastard killed another woman? Honestly, that man does _not_ have a damn heart. They climbed up the stairs, their feet lightly hitting the hard steps.

"You're not the only one who wants him dead, girl," Elliot chuckled, shaking his head. "_I_ want him dead, too. Let's share the victory when we find that fucker."

"Sure, whatever," Rashel murmured. As long as she gets to kill Hunter, then she's fine. It'll help her body sleep well at night.

"Oh and—" _Ring, ring, ring!_ Elliot held up his forefinger and excused himself from Rashel, pulling out his phone from his pocket. "Yeah?" He muttered something incoherent. Rashel stopped and waited for Elliot, also wanting to know about the phone call. It was his work phone that went off, so this is (most likely than not) a business matter.

"Right, I'll be there." He snapped his phone shut. Elliot turned to Rashel with a sigh. "Sorry, I gotta go—"

"I want to come. Take me with you," Rashel interrupted as they briskly walked out of the building.

Elliot shrugged and inclined his head to the parking lot. "Hop in. We'll come back for your car later."

She nodded. "And tell me what the phone call was about," Rashel added, racing to his car—one of the only cars in the parking lot. She slipped in the nearly dark tinted car, the dark gray leather seat feeling cold and leathery under her skin. Damn, she was in her exercising-attire and she was going to a business-related thing. Double damn.

Elliot closed his door and put the key in ignition. "Alright, well, our boss said to check out this warehouse area near the hotel-casino-resort. Said something about some possible illegal activity there."

"Hunter? I mean, New York is just two-and-a-half hours away. It's probably Hunter." Oh she _hoped_ it was Hunter.

He shrugged again. "Hunter wouldn't be _that_ stupid, I'll give him that. But then again, maybe his age is finally getting to him."

"Either way, I hope its Hunter," Rashel muttered.

The rest of their ride was spent in anxious silence, the lights of the busy city blurring as they sped through the streets. Five minutes later, after running a few red lights, Elliot parked his car by the hotel-casino parking garage. Rashel pulled out a jacket so that she can hide her gun. She grabbed her extra ammos and handed some to Elliot.

"Always be prepared, Elliot," Rashel chastised with a smirk. She elegantly leaped out of the car. Elliot smirked back and led the way. Rashel followed closely behind, their feet barely making any sounds as they trudged down the empty parking garage.

They encountered some people along the way, but no one who are too dangerous.

"Are the others supposed to be here?"

"Only Vicky, I think," Elliot murmured, his hand poised over the gun hidden underneath his jacket.

Of course, Rashel thought. She's not really fond of Vicky—but no one can choose who they work with, can they?

Just as they were about to round the corner, someone jumped on Elliot and poised a gun by his head and—

"Vicky, stop it!" Elliot hissed. Vicky's arm was tightly wrapped around Elliot's throat, her legs wrapped around his body so that he couldn't move.

"Shit, sorry," Vicky muttered. Her brunette hair was pulled back in a high, tight ponytail—just like Rashel's. Her blue eyes appeared perplexed and wary. She quickly let go of Elliot and jumped down on the ground. "Sorry. Sorry. I was too anxious . . ."

You were; was what Rashel wanted to say—but she didn't want to start an unnecessary fight with Vicky . . . no matter how much she wants to. Elliot brushed the incident off and then, as a group, they all began walking stealthily towards the big warehouse.

And then three forms suddenly leaped at them just as they were about to enter the dark and bare storehouse.

Rashel was in a tight choke hold, and so was Elliot. Vicky, on the other hand, was being dragged around as her small frame tried to fight the massive weight off. Rashel couldn't breathe. She dropped her jacket and scratched at the man's arms.

"_Stop_ that," the guy's deep voice hissed in her ear. He probably saw her gun since he found the nerve to chuckle and pull it out from her holster.

Somehow, for an odd reason, a little shiver went down her spine because the guy's voice was so deep. "Let go of me," she hissed back, stomping on his foot. When her attack actually loosened his grip around her throat, she sent him a hard blow on his celiac plexus. The man instinctively dropped his arms from the head lock he was maintaining around her throat.

"Don't move," he commanded just as Rashel pivoted on her heel. He was pointing the gun at her.

Despite the situation, Rashel laughed. "It's nice to finally meet you, John Quinn."

His dark eyes hardened. "It's _Quinn_." He teasingly put pressure on the trigger and then let the pressure go, and so on. Rashel couldn't take her eyes off of him. He seemed to be playing around with her. And she just doesn't like it at all.

"What are you waiting for?" Rashel asked, her green eyes narrowing. She couldn't keep track of what's happening around them. She couldn't tell if Elliot and Vicky were fighting off the other bastards because John is just . . . there. Pointing a gun at her.

He didn't reply but, soon enough, she heard a pistol going off.

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><p><strong>AN:** Ohmigosh, ohmigosh, ohmigosh. How was it? Te gusta or no te gusta? Please tell me in a review:) Anyways, I'm just gonna go delete some stories in the [very] near future…or rewrite some stories. But yeah, this plot that I developed totally differed from the original plot I planned. Because…well, I don't wanna give out any spoilers. XD But the original plot was for JezxMorgy, but then I thought that it would fit RashelxQuinn too, but when I tried out the original plot on these two, I was TOTALLY wrong. So I had to tweak some parts and histories of L.J. Smith's characters and used their story as a guide to make mine… and yuuup.

**Thank you guys for viewing/reviewing/subscribing/faving/whatever-ing this story :D Totally appreciate it ;)**

**Review? :3**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Lots of quotes from The Chosen's Chapter 5 in this chapter… :) I think I rephrased most/some of it, but you'll totally see the similarities. xD THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS GUYS! :D**

**WARNING: Lots of cursing too. :P But I think you guys are used to that…**

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><p><strong>The Cop and the Criminal<strong>

**.**

"Rashel, run!"

Like hell I'll run, Rashel thought as Quinn growled, gripping his hand. He dropped the gun. Maybe today's the day she can actually face John Quinn and see if he's really tough or not. Rashel charged at Quinn, her fist making contact with his solar plexus. The air was knocked out of Quinn's lungs. He stumbled backwards and glared at her.

Elliot screamed at Rashel again. "RUN!"

She ignored him, knowing that if they make it out of this place alive, then he's going to scold her for insubordination. "Come on, John. Let's do this."

Quinn was tempted to flip her off, but he didn't. He was lucky that his hand wasn't shot; he didn't want to take any risk of getting shot again—especially since he doesn't have a firearm with him at the moment. So he simply gritted his teeth and glared at the woman before him. He didn't even bother to correct her with his name. "Fine, you asked for it."

Rashel laughed, settling in a fighting stance. Hand to hand combat was one of her fortes. After all, she didn't study martial arts for nothing. "No, _you_ asked for it. You did all these crimes, you get what you earn."

They were circling each other now. Somehow, the other two pairs were fighting far away from them.

This was the perfect time to lounge at Quinn.

And she did.

This time, Quinn blocked her fist from contacting with his face. For some damn reason, he didn't want to hit her. She seemed strong. After a moment, he rephrased his judgment; she _is_ strong. He quickly slid his hand to her wrist and quickly twisted her arm—not enough to break her arm, but enough to give her some pain.

Rashel gritted her teeth as Quinn pinned her arm behind her, also pinning her other arm behind her. "Yup. I've earned money by doing all those crimes. Wonderful, right?"

"Definitely," Rashel said sarcastically. "Not." With her arms pinned behind her, Rashel had no choice but to throw Quinn over her back. Fortunately, she succeeded.

Quinn groaned, his back hitting the hard pavement. He quickly got back on his feet though, already in a stance. He vaguely noticed that they were battling by the warehouse, near the big door. If he could only get her inside . . . he'll have the chance to kill her more easily.

But he has this odd feeling of not wanting to kill her. What an eccentric feeling.

Rashel raised her fist to punch Quinn in the face. He raised his hands to block her fist—

But she swiftly grabbed his wrists and pulled it behind him, pushing him—face first—against the opaque wall of the warehouse. She faked a punch. Damn shit, Quinn thought frustratingly. _Damn fucking . . ._

Rashel shoved him harder against the wall, trying to find something to tie his wrists with. Damn, she thought, I should've brought handcuffs. _Damn it_. She actually found their combat interesting. It seems like he's always waiting for her to move so that he could counteract her attacks. But now he's finally going to jail—_if_ Elliot and Vicky would just hurry up so she can quit stalling John. She was slightly panting, sweat forming on her forehead and neck.

Under her hand, she could feel Quinn's hard and muscled back. The warmth of his skin and the sight of him against the wall were driving her senses to an overload. Damn it all to hell. She needs a distraction again. Why in the world is she even thinking about—ugh. She needs some type of fire arm. She needs to knock him out. But if she released a hand from his wrists, he can effortlessly switch their positions around. Damn him.

"Come on. _Do_ something," Quinn said, looking at her with his dark eyes.

She really should knock him out. But Rashel can't imagine herself doing so. _He_ might end up shoving _her_ into this very same wall if she let go. Rashel forced his front part of the body firmer against the wall. She heard his jaw click.

"Sorry," she said. "I don't take orders from criminals."

"Hmm, I see," Quinn answered with a crooked smile. "So I suppose its torture time, correct? Must be really pleasing for you."

"Although I'd _love_ to torture you," Rashel said, pausing. Why the _hell_ is she even talking to him? This is ridiculous. But she couldn't find herself _not_ answering to him. It was all so . . . strange. She needs a fucking distraction—damn it! The cop pushed him against the wall again. "I can't at the moment."

He gritted his teeth, feeling a bit of blood ooze down at the little cuts on his left cheek as the girl pressed him with more force against the wall. Quinn wriggled his wrists, making her grip tighten around it. "Is it because your little friends aren't with you-?" Her grip tightened into an iron grasp around his wrists. "-or is it because you want information about Hunter?" Curved smile.

Rashel was a bit baffled that Quinn didn't call Hunter his 'Dad'—but she really didn't care about their family relationships. "Would I get information from you if I _did_ want it?"

"Nope," he answered with the same smile.

"I didn't think so," Rashel said. He only chuckled. God, what's wrong with him? If she only had handcuffs, she really _would_ have knocked him out. Hell, he would've been unconscious a long time ago. Bullshit.

And hell, what's wrong with _her_? She found his smile . . . very . . . appealing. Shit, Rashel thought to herself as she stared at his smirking face, I feel like I'm in trouble. He waggled his wrists again, pulling Rashel out of her stupor.

"You're zoning out, gorgeous," Quinn said with the same fascinating smile. Her heart pounded in an irregular beat when he called her gorgeous. _Gorgeous_. God, she's in so much trouble. Why is she feeling like this? The back of her head was panicking. Knock him out, _knock him out_. Don't talk to him. Knock him out.

But how could she knock him out when one of the most wanted criminals called her _gorgeous_? God, she needs to . . . she has to get over the fact that he called her gorgeous. It was _just_ John Quinn. Strangely enough, she wished that he wasn't a criminal and she wasn't a cop.

What the _fuck_ is she thinking?

"Ignoring me now?" Quinn asked, chuckling. Rashel tightened her hands around his wrists. He didn't let her answer his first question because he asked another one; "Say, what's your name?"

"It's Rashel," she found herself replying. Mother of—_why _did she do that? Why did she-? She should've kept her identity a secret. She should have. Damn. Always screwing everything up! Damn hell.

"As in Rashel _Jordan_?" Quinn asked, astonished.

"Yes, that would be me."

Something like . . . _respect_ showed in his eyes as he tried to turn and look at her more clearly. His eyes examined her from head to foot. His expression was serious. "Should've known. No wonder why you knew my name."

"Everyone knows you," she pointed out. The way he looked at her like that, as if staring at her for the first time, made her . . . self-conscious. Fucker.

He scoffed. "Only ones that read or watch the news. Which isn't much of America's population."

"This is why we should put higher rewards to catch their attention," Rashel muttered.

Quinn laughed sourly. "Money buys us everything, after all."

"You don't seem to mean it," Rashel said, noting the sourness of his laugh. He gave her a cold glance. "Look," she said (God, what's wrong with her? Really?), "Why are you even . . . nevermind."

"No, go ahead and ask your question," Quinn said.

"How did you even get _involved_ in crimes?" Rashel asked.

There was a long pause. He spoke, "This wasn't the question you were going to ask earlier."

"Actually, it is. I just didn't know how to rephrase it," Rashel said.

Another long pause. He continued to look at her, even with the left side of his face pressed against the wall. His face must be numb now, she absently thought to herself. "Hunter got me in this."

"Because you're his heir?"

"It's an on-and-off thing," he said. He didn't dare say that he didn't want to be involved in these illegal crimes. That would make him look like a weak wimp that only followed Hunter's orders. Quinn didn't want Rashel to think of him as that.

He surprised himself by wanting the cop to think highly of him. However, he'll never admit that to her. Or to anyone for that matter.

"Why did you do it?" Rashel asked, almost breathless. She just realized that she was _talking_ to Quinn as if they were . . . in a normal conversation. Or a deep conversation. What the fucking hell . . .

"Had to repay him back," he said with light shrug. "I . . . actually lived in Europe when I was a kid, wandering the streets. He found me, probably seeing some kind of potential, and took me in. He only had three daughters and couldn't have a son, so he got me. He wanted me to be an heir and continue his businesses."

"_Illegal_ businesses," Rashel said. She never knew his past. He was always on the down-low and his profile is usually about what crimes he did. She never knew he was European.

Unfortunately, that fact made him even _more_ appealing to her. The European-fact.

He only shrugged. "This is the only information I'm ever giving up to you and your friends." Smile.

Rashel continued to stare at him. "We don't need to know about your past. We _don't_ need it," she said a bit harshly. He merely rolled his eyes. "You know, there are some things you can share to us though . . ."

"Like I said, this is the only information I'm ever giving up to you and your friends," he added with a chuckle. "And I don't need a damn psychoanalyst—so don't act like one." He smirked this time, twisting his wrists in her grasp. "I really think you should do something about me right now. Because when I get out of your grip, I'll do worse things that you can ever do to me."

Rashel shivered a bit. The night was cold, but his words were what affected her. She wasn't scared. Just . . . curious as to what he has in mind for her. There was a weird calmness in her. She was so intrigued by him that she didn't want him to be in jail. Not yet.

Slowly, she was letting her pressure around his wrists loosen. Quinn, noticing this, stopped wriggling his wrists. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, incredulously.

She looked around, checking to see if Elliott and Vicky were near the hearing range. Nope, they're not here. Yet. "I'm letting you go John."

He stared at her in disbelief. "You're _insane_." Quinn was saying it like he just discovered out she was insane.

"Probably," Rashel muttered, her fingers slowly unclasping themselves from his wrists. She saw that she left red marks around it. His hands were most likely numb as well as his face. Rashel stepped back just as Quinn turned around. The left side of his face was marginally red, a little bit of cuts because of the rough wall that he was pressed in.

Quinn rolled his neck, trying to ease the muscle tension there. "You're such an _idiot_," he told her. "And I was beginning to think that you were one of those rookies who'd fall over their own feet. I guess not."

"We're both humans. I can take you on," Rashel said, her nerves beginning to panic.

"But I'm not just _any_ normal human. I'm a fucking criminal. I know how to work myself in and out of impossible things." He turned those eyes on her. "I'm much worse than any normal criminal too. I bet you already know that."

"But you're still human. I can find a way," she said. God, he was right. I'm such an idiot. She should've stalled him instead of letting him go. Her heart was pumping with panic as he took a step towards her.

"It's such a shame to beat up your pretty face," he said instead. Rashel stood still. He was standing just in front of her; their chests were almost touching. She slightly tilted her chin up too look at his face.

"Well?" she whispered.

"Well," he said coolly.

They just stood there. Standing so, so close to each other. He's got . . . _zanshin_, Rashel realized. The relaxed alertness that she was trained to have. Relaxed, but completely alert. He must have had training of some sort as well.

"You're very good," she said quietly. Her skin was itching to . . . _do_ something to him. Her mind was panicking. He can hit her now. Why isn't he hitting her?

"Thank you. So are you."

"Thanks."

"But it's not going to matter in the end."

"We'll see about—" Rashel was beginning to stay before she jumped back as he almost hit her.

She saw it coming. His leg moved for a quick second before his arm swiftly raised and nearly swung at her. She didn't have any weapons, so she could only hurt him using her hands. But she didn't want to do that.

Rashel didn't want to hurt him with her bare hands.

It would've been easier if I had a gun, she thought as she deflected his second attack with a blow from her left arm. She sensed that he was holding back from fully attacking her . . . "Are you trying _not_ to hurt me?"

Quinn snarled. "You are going to _die_, you idiot," he said with a glare. And he lunged at her again. This time, putting all his force and weight that they both fell down on the hard pavement.

With Quinn on top.

Rashel hit her head on the hard and rough concrete, her eyes going out of focus for a second. Quinn had his hands on either side of her head, breathing deeply as he stared at her. She swallowed hard. She was going to die. She was scared. She was foolish to think that he'd go and . . . she's insane. John _is_ right, Rashel thought as she stared at his fathomless eyes, I'm insane.

She shut her eyes tightly, swallowing hard again. "Make it fast."

"You're not giving up are you?" he asked. He sounded incredulous again. Rashel didn't open her eyes at all. She didn't want to look at him. Rashel felt Quinn shift above her and heard him breathe deeply. She was going to get hit. She just knew it. Rashel bit her lip, anxious.

Instead of feeling pain, she felt the light touch of his finger tips down her jaw line and onto her neck. She shivered, never having felt such sensation before.

"Hey! Get _off_ of her!"

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><p><strong>AN: I hope you guys enjoyed that! Thank you so much for the reviews :D I really, really appreciate it! This chapter would've been longer…but I wanted the subsequent events in the next chapter ;) Please tell me what you think :)**

**Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

A faint command was coming from somewhere far away.

Rashel's eyes snapped open as she turned her head. Quinn stopped tracing her jaw line and looked up as well.

Nyala. Elliot must have sent her. Or maybe Vicky requested for her.

She appeared like she was ready to rip out Quinn's guts. Rashel took a deep breath and kicked Quinn in his abdomen, sending him flying towards the wall. Rashel looked back at Elliot and at Quinn again.

Nyala was running from the other side of the area, her face a bit sweaty and her eyes were wide. Rashel couldn't see her gun. Maybe Nyala was hiding it. With a last-minute decision, Rashel quickly jumped up, her eyes becoming unfocused for a moment once again before she turned to Quinn.

He was watching her. He could see that there was blood on the back of her shirt, most likely from the cut he made when he tackled her on the ground. Quinn frowned. He didn't intend to hurt her. Well, not seriously . . . but maybe the cut wasn't as serious as he imagined it to be.

"Go," she whispered harshly. Her eyes faltered again, her form slightly going out of balance.

Quinn simply stood there. Nyala was getting closer and closer. Rashel stepped closer to Quinn, giving him a shove. "_Go_. I'll get in their way while you make a run for it."

The other cop was close enough that they could hear her voice clearly. "Elliot, are you there?" she spoke to the handheld transceiver, panting. They heard an electric shock run through transceiver and Rashel shoved Quinn again. "G-"

"What did he do to you?" Nyala demanded. She was now a few hundred feet away from them.

Thank God it was dark. Or else Nyala would've seen Rashel and a criminal discussing in hushed voices.

Rashel didn't answer. She simply lowered her voice. "Do you realize what they're going to _do_ to you?"

"I don't think they'll be overjoyed with _you_ either," he muttered, preparing to be in a fighting stance.

"I can take care of myself," she retorted in a harsh whisper. "Just _go_. Leave." Rashel was so frustrated. Why isn't he following her? Even if it's for his own safety? She glanced at Quinn, who looked as angry as her, and realized—with a start—that he doesn't want help.

He doesn't want help at all.

Nyala's footsteps were getting louder and louder as she neared them. Rashel caught Quinn's gaze and willed him to realize the consequences if her fellow cops capture him. Please tell me you understand, _please_ tell me you understand, she thought repeatedly in her mind.

Seeing as the other cop was getting closer to them and endangering his wellbeing, Quinn sent a cold glare towards Rashel and ran the opposite direction. She watched as he disappeared in the darkness and safety of the warehouse. Rashel suppressed a sigh of relief.

Her gaze unfocused again, her balance almost slipping. For the first time in the night, Rashel realized that she was tired. Her arms and legs wanted to go limp—hell, her whole _body_ wants to go limp. Just having a combat with John Quinn . . . was exhausting.

"God, Rashel!" Nyala said, bending over and putting her hands on her knees. "Why'd you let him go?" she asked. Her tone almost sounded accusing.

"I don't know," Rashel said slowly. She blinked and tried to shake the dizziness off of her. Keep your wits together, Rashel chastised herself.

"Did you purposely let him go?" Nyala asked, anger evident in her eyes. Rashel could understand why Nyala would be mad at her. Nyala's sister was killed during a massacre that involved other bystanders inside the building. The purpose of the massacre was to get rid of the head's company and get the important files to open the company's bank money. Unfortunately, her sister was working under the company by that time and so she was involved in the cold-blooded massacre. It was implied that the massacre was under Hunter's influence—or Maya's. They weren't sure. But this is why Nyala joined their organization.

To get revenge.

And ever since then, Nyala had idolized Rashel. But now, Rashel ruined her image.

Rashel swallowed hard, her head having a heartbeat of its own. She noticed that something warm was sliding down her nape. "Yes, I did."

"Well," Vicky said with a deep frown. She eyed Rashel critically. Not as hostile as it used to be, but it wasn't warm either. Vicky had cuts on her face, and if she had more, then her long shirt and pants were hiding it successfully. Her ponytail was messed up, strands of her brown hair gliding down her face.

"Wait 'till I tell Elliot!" Nyala was saying, her eyes wide with frustration. Rashel felt like she'd been slapped in the face. "Hell, I'll tell everyone in our department! Bullshit! Rashel Jordan let one of the _most wanted_ criminals go—on purpose!" Her lower lip was trembling. "That was probably the only way we can find Hunter, and you _let him go_. We're never going to find them now that they know we know about this area!" She took a shaky breath, tears in her eyes. "I _hate_ you."

Nyala glared at Rashel and turned around, crossing her arms. She walked away angrily.

Rashel stared after her. She spoke to Vicky, keeping her expression emotionless. "You better go get her. It's not safe for anyone that's in a vulnerable state to be here. Alone."

"Come on," Vicky said, inclining her head towards Nyala's disappearing form. "We'll drive you home."

Rashel shook her head, lightly touching her nape. When she pulled her fingers back, she saw blood. Shit. "Nah, its fine. Elliot's going to drive me back to the building. I left my car there." She'd rather have Elliot scold her than ride home with Vicky or Nyala.

Vicky raised her eyebrows, her pale blue eyes staring questioningly at Rashel's bloody fingertips. Rashel quickly wiped the blood on her sweat, smudging blood on it. "What happened there?"

"Got slammed. No big deal," Rashel murmured. She was losing blood. Slowly, yes, but it was affecting her. She pulled out her hair-tie, keeping her hair up so that it wouldn't affect her bloody cut, and retied her hair. She held back a flinch when she gently pulled on her hair, stinging the cut.

Vicky opened her mouth to say something and then closed it. She sighed and shook her head. "Nyala's not going to do that. She's just angry."

Rashel only shrugged, dragging her feet towards her gun that Quinn dropped. _John Quinn_. She carefully kneeled down and took her gun, placing it in her holster. "Did you call backup or something?" she asked softly.

Vicky shook her head. "I think it was Elliot who called them. I found out that these crooks were only staying at this warehouse to be on the down-low. They wanted to establish this as their safe haven of some sort, but they couldn't do that if they keep on kidnapping girls," she paused, looking around, "Speaking of kidnapping girls, there were a few girls in that warehouse over there," she nodded towards the warehouse on the opposite side. "None were harmed."

"That's good to hear," Rashel said, her head growing lighter and lighter. "No more crooks here, right?"

"There were only a few. The two we encountered were captured. Scared the rest of them off," Vicky said. "I suppose that's why the backups are here. But they're continuing to scan the area. So far, so good."

Rashel nodded. She started to walk and Vicky strolled beside her. "Looks like a bad cut," Vicky commented. "You might want to stop the blood before you pass out."

"I'll try."

"One more thing," Vicky said. "You're most likely not going to come with us tomorrow. Not only because of the cut on your head, but also because of insubordination. Oh, and let's not forget, purposely letting _John Quinn_ go."

Rashel faltered in her step. Fucker. The realization of how bad she screwed things up suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks. Damn shit. "I'm probably going to get fired, right?"

There was a long silence. "Hmm, no. Maybe excluded on one or two major investigations but not fired. Your potentials will surely be wasted if that ever happens."

"So . . . I'll just get suspended?" Rashel asked.

"Pretty much. Although I'm not absolutely positive about my predictions," Vicky said, looking around. "Anyways, get some rest and treat that cut of yours. See you around," she said in a business-tone.

Rashel simply nodded with a soft sigh. Man, she's screwed.

* * *

><p>The next day—which was, sadly, a Wednesday—Rashel lay in her bed with her bandaged head. It was a big gash, although nothing too serious. Elliot had simply rushed her to the hospital, scolding her all the way, and ended up sighing, "You're suspended for about five days, I suppose."<p>

And just like that, she was suspended.

Rashel scowled. Today was the day they go on mission too.

Damn it all to hell. She tried to sit up, but the hits that John sent her last night—besides the wound behind her head—was very, very opaque that she can still feel the aftereffects. Damn it all to-

"Shit," Rashel gritted her teeth as she slumped back in her bed. "Damn it all- stupid fucking- shit," she continued to mumble as she forced herself to sit up from her bed. Rashel was given antibiotics by the doctor last night and was advised to rest and stay home for a few days because of the cut on her head.

Because of John Quinn.

Rashel scowled. What was she _thinking_? Why did she let him go and let herself be suspended while he's out there doing crimes? Hurting people? Rashel growled in frustration. She needs to calm down.

Distractions, she thought as she slipped in a pair of rubber shoes. I need _distractions_.

She couldn't possibly go gun-shooting practice in this state. She might accidentally loose her grip around her pistol and drop it on the floor. Or she might go out of balance and just pass out. Rashel sighed through her nose.

Mom.

She could go to her mom. She could visit her mom's grave.

And now that she thought about it, Rashel hasn't visited her mother's grave for more than half a year now. Rashel apologized to her mother in her head as she switched into a much more decent outfit.

Rashel grabbed her keys, walking by her kitchen to grab a granola bar. She let her hair down, trying to cover her recent gash, and flew down the stairs and outside her flat.

The cemetery was a mile and a half from where she lives, so she took her car. On a normal basis, she would've taken her time and jogged towards the cemetery to help and extend her thinking-time. But because of her current physical state, she decided to take her car.

Seven minutes later, Rashel stepped out of her car and onto the semi-dry grass of the cemetery. There were tons of headstones with wonderful flowers but only one headstone was on her mind.

She walked down the silent pathway, the old, rusty gates behind her wide open. There were a few old trees here and there in the cemetery. Most were scattered as if they were just planted randomly. Some were acting as borders towards the woods behind it. Rashel softly sighed as the wind rustled the dried leaves on the grass. It was definitely building an eerie atmospehere.

But she only felt the same calm she felt last night with John.

That weird . . . _crazy_-calm.

Rashel turned and disappeared behind a arbitrary tree, finally seeing her mom's gravestone. She needed to talk to her mom. She wanted to know whether she was insane or not.

She slowly got down on her knees and folded them under her. Rashel bowed her head while reaching out to stroke her mother's name. "Hey Mom," Rashel whispered.

The wind rustled again.

"I miss you a lot, you know." Rashel didn't trust her voice. So she just whispered. "I think that if you were still here," she paused and then smiled sadly, "everything will be okay. That's what you always tell me after all."

Rashel wanted to cry. She missed her mom. She missed the bed time stories she told her . . . the gifts she gave her . . . the memories were still etched in her mind.

She rubbed the corner of her right eye and sighed softly. "I have a problem, Mom." Rashel leaned back and ran a hand through hair, her fingers lightly grazing her cut. "I screwed up last night. I don't know why I purposely let John go." Rashel swallowed the lump in her throat, thinking of the other people he could be hurting right now. If she only stopped him last night . . . "I'm so sorry, Mom."

_Crunch, thud, thud, crunch_ . . .

Footsteps.

She could hear someone walking on the dried, fallen leaves. Rashel stopped talking and just bowed her head, clasping her hands together. She was waiting for the person to pass by instead of just standing a few feet behind her. It was just . . . weird.

Her skin produced goosebumps. She was wearing a jacket, but she had no idea why her skin had goosebumps. Rashel licked her slightly chapped lips, breathing in the mossy smell of the graveyard.

Why is she feeling like this?

Rashel didn't notice anything out of the ordinary-

"You. What are you doing here?"

She knew that voice too well. Rashel was fairly accustomed to the voice now. Even if they have only talked last night. The voice was monotonous and deep. The voice of . . .

"John Quinn," Rashel said softly, pushing herself up from the ground.

"Rashel Jordan," he greeted with a nod as she turned around to face him. "How are you this fine day?" Curved smile.

That bastard.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: THANKS TAYLAR FOR THE BRILLIANT ENDING IDEA! :D Thanks so much SpOrTyNo1! I totally appreciate your help! Now I know who to turn to when I'm stuck;)  
>So, um, what do you guys think of this chapter? Was it rushed? <strong>

**Thank you so much guys for the reviews! I really appreciate them! :D And thank you everyone who reviewed/read/subscribed/favorite-d/whatever-ed this story! :D Thanks a lot guys! :D Since break is almost here, I might update sooner! :)**

**Thanks so much!**

**. . . Review? :3**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for the reviews! :D I REALLY APPRECIATE THEM! I was literally jumping up and down with joy just because you guys sent me reviews, so thank you so very much! ^_^  
>WARNING: Oh boy, I think you guys will be surprised at this graveyard-part with Quinn (I think SpOrTyNo1 might know what that would be since she gave me the brilliant idea when I was talking to her a few days ago:)… but enjoy! :D<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>The Cop and the Criminal<strong>

**.**

When Rashel just glared at Quinn, Quinn raised his hands in surrender.

"I'm not here to fight. Hell—oops, excuse my language—I didn't even know that you were visiting someone today," he said calmly.

Rashel tried not to frown. She should arrest him right now. She really should. It can make her suspension disappear as fast as it happened if she could only arrest him and take him back to their headquarters.

But something was holding her back.

And that "something" is disrespectfulness.

She didn't want to disrespect the resting souls in this cemetery by capturing Quinn. Arresting him after a _few_ good beats, she meant.

"Well, why are you here?" Rashel asked, crossing her arms.

Quinn only pushed his hands in his pockets, slightly tilting his head to the side. His hair was kind of covering his dark eyes now . . . "Visiting my sister."

"Oh."

"How about you?"

Rashel glared again, her blood growing very warm with anger. "Visiting my mom. Which, by the way, was killed by _your Dad_."

"_Foster_-dad," Quinn corrected, avoiding the thought of his real father. "Well, I'm very sorry for the pain that Hunter caused you." He was stoic. Not sounding apologetic in the least.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry for your sister too," Rashel said, just as monotonously.

He half-smiled and his eyes glinting amusedly. "Are you going to arrest me? It's the perfect opportunity, you know."

"Oh I _do_ know," she said through her teeth. "I just don't want to do anything that will disrupt the peaceful souls here in the cemetery."

"So you're letting me go? _Again_?" Quinn asked, his eyebrows raised. "Are you really going to repeat your mistake?"

Rashel narrowed her green eyes at him, frowning. Thanks a lot for ruining my visit _John_, she thought angrily. "No. I'm not. In fact, I'm going to call-"

"What, your fellow cops?" Quinn interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Why don't _you_ arrest me yourself?" He was taunting her. Either he just wants to feel her skin (hey, he's still a guy), or he just wants to piss her off—he didn't know.

Rashel wanted to lash out at Quinn. That son of a- "I'm not doing it in the cemetery." She wanted to strangle him and jump on him at the same time! Please give me patience Mother, she thought angrily. Please don't let me hurt him in the cemetery. "It's ill-mannered. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want anyone fighting on your grave."

"I wouldn't even care if anyone were to dig my body out. I'll be dead by then; therefore, no soul," Quinn replied, his fathomless eyes giving her a hard stare. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He began walking past her and couldn't help but glance at the back of her neck.

"Asshole," Rashel muttered as he passed her. His scent drifted to her senses. He smelled . . . _good_. Manly and a bit musky.

"Bitch," Quinn muttered when he heard her. Was her hair really that long and dark? Her hair was in a ponytail last night . . . so he didn't really- God, what is he thinking? So what if her hair was long and black and straight? Hell—excuse his language again—he shouldn't even _care_.

Because she was the cop. And he was the criminal.

It's just . . . forbidden to _think_ that way.

"See you later, John." She was already walking away, her voice fading and her steps making sounds on the dried leaves.

"It's Quinn," he corrected her over his shoulder and walked further into a small clearing. Quinn sighed and gently nudged the ground with the tip of his foot. He missed his younger foster-sister. "Hey little sis. How are you?" he murmured, staring down at the gravestone.

_Dove Redfern_.

His foster-sister's name was engraved on the grayish marble stone with elegant, cursive letters. Under her name were her date of birth and death—and under that were the words, "Beloved daughter and sister . . ."

Quinn blinked repeatedly, his memories of his sweet sister quickly flashing in his mind before disappearing in his small innocent memories. "Well, I hope you're having fun up there. I don't think I'll be able to join you when I die. So just . . . I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair and squatted near the gravestone. "I suppose you saw the female cop, huh?" Quinn lightly swept fallen leaves and dirt from his sister's grave. "Yeah, she drives me nuts."

He could hear his sister's amused giggle in his head as the wind blew softly against him, making the fallen leaves he had swept from her gravestone go back on the stone. Quinn sighed. "Well, I guess I'm off for now. I'll visit you again whenever I come back here. I suspect that the cop's waiting for me outside." Quinn half-smiled down at his sister's grave. "Until next time, Dove."

With that, Quinn pushed his hands in his pockets and walked the other direction, avoiding the exit he _knew_ the cop was at.

To him, the cop was predictable and unpredictable at the same time. Confusing, to sum it up. That was why, last night, he waited for her to attack him first so that he could understand her techniques. But she soon caught up to his strategy plan and faked a punch to torture him against the wall (that sounds a bit sensual, doesn't it?). He easily predicted how her actual reactions are but then she does something totally unpredictable that counters her actual reactions and he just couldn't . . . understand her.

It was like Quinn could understand _and_ not understand her.

It was all so confusing that he didn't want to think anymore.

Hell—damn it, excuse his language again—he shouldn't even be _thinking_ of Rashel Jordan. Quinn growled, his eyes flashing angrily behind him, checking if that nuisance was following him. He should take home a girl tonight. Just to get the cop out of his mind.

Now, as he neared the alternate (secret) exit of the graveyard, Quinn smiled to himself. He was going to surprise the cop. Maybe he'll just throw her inside a well (if he could find one; preferably like the ones in the horror films) after he knocks her out.

Instead of walking straight through the secret exit, he turned to his right where some trees can be used to hide him. Quinn slightly crouched as he walked through the small mass of trees, keeping himself hidden as he saw the entrance he used earlier.

And, as he predicted, Rashel Jordan was there with her arms crossed.

She was staring at the opposite direction—thank the heavens—while pacing back and forth. Her green eyes were focused on the pathway that they used a few minutes ago, her lips turned down in a slight frown, her expression troubled. Her dark hair was freely moving as she moved. She appeared as if she was in a deep thought. She looked so . . . perfect; appearing troubled like that. Maybe he was just a sadist.

He faintly wondered how she'd look like if she smiled at him; a genuine smile—not a malicious one. Not that he had any intentions to make her smile. Quinn was only wondering if it would make her look more . . . attractive.

Quinn crouched lower as he neared the opening of the trees. Now, how is he going to cross the distance without being in plain sight? Damn it all to he . . . ck, he thought as he shunned himself from saying hell. Maybe he should just give her a break and just not ambush her?

Nope. Not at all. He didn't want to give her a break.

But he ended up doing it anyway. Quinn watched her for another minute or so before retreating back to the direction he had come. It was a good thing he parked his car outside. He glanced back behind his shoulder and saw Rashel still pacing. His heart thudded oddly as he shook his head.

That idiot, he thought as he used his secret passageway. Hopefully, he'll never see her again. But Quinn couldn't help the feeling of _wanting_ to see her again.

And he hated that feeling so much.

* * *

><p>Rashel sighed through her nose.<p>

Is that stupid asshole staying in the cemetery for the whole day or something? She can't let him get away again. With a final decision, she began walking back towards her mother's grave and tried to follow the direction she saw him headed for.

A chill ran through her as a scenario played in her head. What if Quinn was waiting for her to follow him so that he could knock her out? No, he wouldn't do that. Rashel knew that he has respect for every dead soul here.

She didn't know how she knew, but she does.

Quinn was sly, sharp, _and_ respectful. Well, respectful to those he likes anyway.

Rashel faltered in her step, her pace starting to come slow as she saw the familiar corner she was about to round. Does that mean he liked her? Not in _that_ way, of course. But in a . . . say, acquaintance-liking-kind-of way?

Before she can even answer the question, she heard a car honking and looked behind her. Parked just outside the gates was a dark-colored sports car with its window rolled down. However, that's not the most surprising part.

Because inside the car was Quinn, grinning amusedly at her. "See you around officer!" he exclaimed over the engine before speeding away.

This left Rashel dumbfounded in the cemetery.

Her mind began processing everything slowly. She encountered John Quinn twice in twenty-four hours. Rashel saw him again today but didn't arrest him because she thought it was _disrespectful_ to do so in a cemetery (is that even a valid reason to let a wanted criminal go? Maybe it was because it was in front of her mother's grave . . .). She waited for him to come out and send his respects to whoever he was visiting before arresting—but _he_ ends up speeding away leaving her flabbergasted here in the cemetery.

As she got in her car, Rashel couldn't help but wonder what happened to the cop that she was a night ago—before she met John Quinn.

Before she began to feel like_ this_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So how was it? I hope it's a good update, and hopefully I'm not rushing any events… OHMYGOSH. I just… HAD A FUCKING INSPIRATION! I know what I'm gonna do for the future chapters ;D I'm not telling anyone though. It shall spoil it. XD**

**Anyways, THANK YOU GUYS for reviewing/reading/subscribing/favorite-ing/whatever-ing this story!**

**Thank you guys so much and happy holidays! :D**

**Review?:)**


	5. Chapter 5

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

Over the next few days, everything went back to normal.

Quinn wasn't in Boston anymore—which made Rashel extremely happy (she _thinks_ she feels that way)—and her suspension was almost over. And because of these two great things, Daphne Childs (her trustworthy, outgoing friend) decided to take her out to a club called . . . _the Crypt_.

Daphne has mentioned it a few times before, saying that the club was an underground club for VIPs. She claimed that it was _really_ an underground club, in which only certain people who get invitations know about. She said that people who go there are ranged from seventeen years old to their age. Anyone older than or younger than the age range, no invitations.

"No. Use that black dress- no, not that one; _that_ one. Yes, that one."

Rashel glared at Daphne. Sometimes, really, she wondered how she ended up being friends with this outgoing blonde chick with the cornflower eyes. She had met Daphne during an investigation years ago, involving a crime near Somerville; where Daphne used to live to earn some money for herself.

It was a dangerous investigation, concerning a lot of crimes done by the same psychological series killer. Daphne herself was nearly killed by the man. Of course, Daphne struggled to fight back and as she was running away from the man with the knife and gun, she called the cops. Rashel had been the one to come out and comfort her while Elliot persuaded the man to put his weapons down.

It was traumatic. Very traumatic and scary.

This is what made Daphne move closer to where Rashel lived; in the apartments. With Rashel being close, Daphne claimed that she felt safer. Daphne made it her priority to help Rashel have some fun—but she soon realized that Rashel is too engrossed in finding Hunter's whereabouts that she seemed to be . . . almost distant.

Surprisingly, Rashel was more aware of every emotion she felt after she got that cut behind her head.

Daphne wondered why though; not that she's complaining. She liked how Rashel is actually letting some of her emotions slip.

"I don't like this one."

"You're gonna learn to like it when guys give you _these_ looks," Daphne said as she tried to imitate a "come-hither" look.

Rashel smiled, shaking her head. "That's one awful imitation. I hope the reactions aren't like that at all."

"Way to be blunt, Rashel," Daphne said, laughing. She was sitting on Rashel's bed, her legs folded underneath her. She watched her reserved friend walk inside the bathroom to see how it will appear on her. After a few minutes (eleven minutes, really), Daphne waited for Rashel to open the bathroom door.

"So," Daphne said, snapping Rashel out of her thoughts, "what do you think about that? Sexy, huh?"

Rashel chuckled and didn't answer. Rashel didn't want to admit it, but Daphne was right. It _is_ sexy. The black straps of the dress were perched on her shoulders, the fabric of the black dress suiting her body very perfectly. She looked as if she was drool-worthy (and maybe she is). Daphne encouraged her to wear black heels to match her dress, but Rashel decided to wear half-inch heels. You know, just in case some emergency happens.

"I doubt anything bad will happen tonight, so don't worry. Let loose. You're single and totally ready to mingle," Daphne said as she watched Rashel put the half-inched black heels on.

"Daphne, don't jinx it."

"I thought you don't believe in stuff like those."

"Daphne . . . I was joking."

"Oh." Then Daphne laughed really hard, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. And maybe it was, because Rashel—for the first time in the years Daphne has known her—actually cracked an intentional joke. Usually, the source of Rashel's humor was her straightforwardness. But not tonight. Well, _hopefully_ not tonight.

"You ready?"

"Always am," Rashel replied as she grabbed her keys.

"No, no, no. _I'm_ driving. After all, I invited you with me," Daphne said with a wink.

Rashel shrugged and lightly pushed Daphne out of her room. "I know. I'll bring my keys with me, just in case."

"You always say that." Daphne exited Rashel's apartment as Rashel closed the door, locking it.

"Say what?"

"'Just in case,'" Daphne copied Rashel. With the serious tone and all.

"What's wrong about that?" Rashel asked nonchalantly as she followed Daphne out of the apartment building. She spotted Daphne's silver car and couldn't help but see the contrast between Daphne's looks and Daphne's car.

The bag she brought (Daphne reprimanded her many times earlier in the day not to bring a backpack to the club) was a big-enough shoulder bag that she can fit some little weapons in it. Like a pocket knife, a pair of flat shoes, and some other things she thinks will be needed for emergencies. And, for some reason, her gut was telling her that something _will_ happen tonight—although she pushed that feeling away before she could change her mind about going.

"Oh nothing. I just think that you should loosen up tonight. Lots of single, _hot_ guys roaming every corner of that club," she said casually as she slipped in the driver's seat.

"I'm already not interested," Rashel said bluntly, sliding in the passenger's seat. "I'm just gonna be there for the party. Not the people. Definitely not the people."

"Jeez, Rashel," Daphne sighed dramatically. "I guess my efforts are a waste."

"It is."

Daphne smiled and shook her head. "You weren't supposed to respond."

"Well, whatever," Rashel replied, smiling a bit. She pulled on her seatbelt. "Now come on. Bring me to this club you've been obsessing about."

Twenty-three minutes later, Rashel and Daphne stepped out of the car. They parked a few streets away from the club and walked through the dark streets. Rashel noted that the club was only a couple of streets away from the warehouse; which made her suspicious. And a bit hopeful of seeing Quinn.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. Rashel sighed through her nose.

"Everything okay?" Daphne asked, glimpsing at her.

"Fine. Everything's fine," Rashel replied.

The night was chilly (they were in Boston after all), though this day was only part of the second week of September. They hugged their coats tighter against themselves as Daphne led the way towards the old urbane-like house in Prentiss Street.

Daphne pulled out this special-looking invitation from her coat pocket and showed it to this buff man behind the door. He looked like a mean chauffer. The man raised an eyebrow and stared at Rashel.

"She's with me," Daphne said, smiling sweetly.

Rashel forced a smile at the man and was gripping her bag tightly.

After a moment of tense silence, the man inclined his head to the side and said in a gruff voice, "Go in."

"Thank you," Rashel said as she passed the man. Daphne hooked her arm through Rashel's and half-dragged her down the steps. There was a long stairway that supposedly led to a basement—but it didn't.

Instead, the stairway led to a tunnel. A long tunnel that was completely dark if it weren't for the dim lights that were on the walls. But even then, it was still a bit dark.

Just what _is_ this place? Rashel thought to herself as she scrutinized the tunnel. She pressed her lips together, trying to see the end of the tunnel.

"You can't see it from here. It's a five-minute walk when you're in heels," Daphne said, glancing at Rashel.

"Hmm, impressive," Rashel murmured as she followed Daphne in the dim tunnel.

Six minutes later, both ladies emerged in a big, cave-like area. It was still dim, considering that it _is_ underground, but there were more colorful lights that were hanging on the rocky walls. There was a bar off to the corner of their right as well, and there was a mingling section—complete with couches and love seats and coffee tables—on the left side. In the middle was a big dancing space where people can mingle with the other individuals.

"Digging your tastes yet?" Daphne teased, sounding a bit hopeful.

"It's notable," Rashel said, watching people around her.

"Come on, let's leave our stuff over there by the couches," Daphne said, pulling Rashel towards the settees. She placed both their belongings on the vacant couch. The people around them didn't even care because some stuff were on other settees as well.

"No one ought to touch my bag," Rashel threatened-muttered under her breath.

"Don't worry- now let's _dance_!" Daphne exclaimed, dragging Rashel to the crowded dance floor.

It was horrible.

First of all, Rashel can kick anyone's ass but _dancing_? No way. Second of all, there were lots of groping; and she thinks it's absolutely _rude_ to just grope someone's ass or someone's boob or someone's dick- ugh. _Third_ of all, no one should be grinding against her butt or vagina at all times—it's beginning to piss her off. And, last but definitely not the least, no one should try to kiss her. _No one_.

No wonder why she hated going out.

In the end, Rashel gave up dancing (and is trying to keep her wits with her) and simply walked back to the fancy divans where their belongings were perched onto. She grabbed her back and plopped down on the couch, sinking as she placed her bag on her lap.

I guess I should go to the bar, she thought. But first, she had to check if all of her belongings were in her bag.

Pocket knife? Check.

Flat shoes? Check.

Phone? Check.

Car keys? Check.

Apartment key? Check.

Aspirin? Check.

Other shit she brought for emergencies? Check and check.

Rashel looked around for Daphne, but couldn't find her in the mass of people. She sighed. She shouldn't have gone to the club. It was a waste of her time. She sat up and crossed her legs, earning some attention from the guys nearby. Rashel suppressed another sigh. Yucky, hormonal guys.

The music was loud enough to vibrate in her ears, but soft enough that she could hear conversations from around her.

"Oh did you _see_ him?"

"Ohmygosh, yes. I swear I was drooling when I-"

Rashel tuned that conversation out.

"Yeah, I never knew this place could be so cool and very badass. It's awesome."

"I know right."

"Dude, did you see that girl? Damn she's hot."

"There are lots of girls here. I don't know who you're talking about."

"That girl over there. Right . . . there."

God, Rashel thought as she glared at the guys who were checking her out, I really want to get out of here. Why did she even come along here? Oh, right. Daphne. Speaking of said-friend, where _is_ she?

"Excuse me, princess, but you seem lonely."

Rashel gave the man a tight smile as she looked up.

She went against every fiber of her body by not pulling out her pocket knife and stabbing this man in the chest. Because, standing in front of her—and _flirting_ with her, was no other than one of the criminals they have been searching for.

Ivan.

Or, as some people call him; Ivan the Terrible.

Why would he be in a club?

But then again, you rarely find clubs like these. So does that mean that there are more criminals in here? Her heart pounded hard against her chest as she cocked her head to the side and forced herself to smile more . . . naturally. She has to tell Elliot about this; notify the other cops in her department.

She decided to copy Daphne's way of saying and speaking things. "Hi there," Rashel said in a musical and enthusiastic tone. Her new voice.

Ivan plopped down beside Rashel, putting an arm on top of the couch. She watched him closely. "Are you new?" he asked her, smiling charmingly.

As if she'd fall for his charms.

She pretended to fall for his charms anyway, nodding eagerly. "Yeah. My friend just brought me here. My first time being here."

Ivan smiled roguishly, his killer blue eyes staring intently in hers. "Want me to show you around? There's some neat shit all around this place. Some," he leaned closer to her ear, whispering, "are very secretive."

Rashel shuddered. Not in a good way, of course.

Ivan must have misunderstood it as an eager shudder since he gripped her elbow in an iron grip. "So, you wanna see the place?"

If it gives me more information about this place then . . . "Sure!" Rashel exclaimed, feigning happiness.

"Great. Follow me, princess," he whispered in her ear. Rashel held back another disgusted shiver as she followed Ivan, hastily grabbing her bag before she forgets about it.

Rashel bit the inside of her cheek as Ivan pushed themselves through the crowd, wondering if she should contact the cops before she gets killed by this psychosomatic murderer. However, in order to do that, she has to find a private place to call the department—where no one will be able to hear her conversation.

Well, fucking hell, how is she going to do that?

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><p><strong>AN: I wanted to continue this chapter but I'll just put the rest in the next chapter. Oh, and I already planned the ending of this story (don't worry, the story's not about to end). You guys are gonna be surprised! :)**

**THANK YOU SO MUCH GUYS FOR REVIEWING/READING/SUBSCRIBING/FAVORITE-ING :D I really appreciate it! I'm sorry if I haven't replied to any PMs lately but, truth be told, I am one lazy gal. So I'm really sorry if I haven't replied…**

**Um, so, review? :D I greatly appreciate it! :3**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

Quinn was sitting on his hotel bed in New York City.

Hunter, his foster-Dad, called for a meeting regarding the warehouses that are being "disposed of" by the cops.

It was boring.

Sure, it was horrible that they were losing all their nearby warehouses, but maybe they should just relocate to Europe or something. Or to South America. Anywhere _but_ here. The cops are hot on their trail and surely, _surely_, they were going to catch up soon.

Not that he was worried.

Quinn's just . . . annoyed. He hated how the cops are watching (tries to, anyway) his every move; wherever he goes, whatever he does—he could just _feel_ it. When he visits the warehouses, where all their "business" is being stored, he would either see A) nearby police cars surveying the area, or B) no cops, whatsoever, surveying the area.

He'd choose the latter, if there was a choice.

Quinn sighed loudly, staring out the window. He was on the seventh floor of this luxurious hotel (apparently, Hunter has connections with the one who's running this hotel so he's safe), lazing on his soft bed as he watched the dark skies above. It appeared chilly outside, what with the gray clouds moving about; and the bald branches swaying. Oh goody. Cold temperature.

Maybe it was forty-five degrees outside?

Huh, good thing he brought his thick-

_Ring! Ring! Ring-!_

Not even bothering to check the caller ID, Quinn scowled and roughly snatched his phone from his desk. "Who decided to call me and disrupt my peace?" he asked angrily. His words may be laughable but his expression was menacing.

A chuckle was heard from the other end. "Calm down, son."

"Hunter," he said, all trace of anger replaced by curiosity. "You need something?" Hunter was never known to chit-chat with him; maybe with his biological daughters—but not _him_. When he calls Quinn, it's usually because he wants something done. Why would this call be any different?

"Can't I just call my son? See if he's okay?" he teased, the smile very evident in his voice.

No, Quinn thought bitterly, you never called to see if I was okay anyway. He bit back the forming remark on his tongue. "Come on, ol—Hunter, I don't have all day."

"Fine, fine," Hunter paused, "I need you to gather those dimwits I'm paying in Boston."

Fucking hell. Hunter wants him to go to _Boston_? After summoning him here to New York for a _boring_ meeting a few days ago; he wanted him to go back to _Boston_? Boston! The place where the cops are on red alert for criminals such as him; the place where Dove is peacefully resting at; the place where that _cop_ is . . .

"And what do I do with them afterwards? Bring them here?" Quinn asked, glaring at his window.

"No. You're bringing them to Hawaii." At this, Quinn felt confused. He waited for the old man to elaborate on the plan—but all he said was, "I'll see you in a few. I don't want other people tracking our phone conversation."

It's possible. Definitely possible.

But, Quinn idly thought, maybe Hunter's finally getting paranoid.

If phone conversations can be tracked, then there would've been lots of other criminals who should've been captured already. And it's not like Hunter was talking to a _cop_. Usually, the cops are the ones with these tracking devices. But then again, he and Hunter _are_ criminals; so they could easily possess such devices.

"Right. So, when and where?" he asked.

"Just down at the lobby of your hotel . . . in half an hour," Hunter said. "See you then, son." With that said, he ended the line.

Quinn sighed, heavily plopping down on his bed. "So much for my peace," he muttered as he gazed up the ceiling.

Twenty-eight minutes and five seconds later, Quinn arrived at the lobby. He didn't bother to dress up since it wasn't anything special; therefore, he only wore a clean pair of jeans, comfy rubber shoes, and a nice shirt . . . although his dark hair was disheveled. He watched the people walk by him, leisurely strolling by the waiting area where he found Hunter.

Hunter hardly stared at him. He was examining the hotel. "You're late. As usual."

Quinn really hated it when Hunter does that to him . . . when he looks down on him. He hated it _so much_. "No," Quinn said as he checked his watch, keeping his calm exterior. He clucked his tongue. "It's only been twenty-nine minutes, and you said to meet here in thirty."

His foster-dad sent him a hard stare, and he glared back. "Anyway," Hunter said in a firm voice; full with authority, "I have a private area there in Hawaii where we can handle the growing crisis of our business. You can take a few . . . _visitors_," Hunter raised an eyebrow and smirked wickedly as he spoke, "to come with you and those dimwits. Understood?"

"Clear as possible," Quinn murmured lazily, nodding.

Hunter pursed his lips together. "This is serious."

"I know."

He gave Quinn another look that clearly said; "Take this seriously or _else_." Hunter nodded at Quinn, the ends of his mouth turned down. "Now, don't disappoint me, boy."

"I won't." He still answered casually; as if he doesn't care.

Hunter turned around, his back facing Quinn. That ungrateful . . . "Very well. I'll hold you to your word." Then, he began walking away from Quinn, his teeth clenched.

"Sure. See you in Hawaii," Quinn called, a smug smile on his face as he realized that he just annoyed his old man. _Good_, he thought to himself. The dark-haired man watched Hunter walk away with slight distaste evident on his face.

Quinn sighed loudly, walking towards the elevators.

Boston, here I come.

* * *

><p>Four hours later, Quinn dragged himself out of the car. He was hesitant and irritated to have come back here—to be <em>ordered<em> to come back here; in Boston. He angrily ran a hand through his hair and scowled, glaring at everyone who stared at him as he paced towards the underground club where he _knows_ Hunter's little minions are at right now.

Quinn knocked on the door of the old debonair-like house. He didn't need an invitation. He was John Quinn. Everyone in this place knows him.

The door opened slightly, the gruff voice of Dane the Bodyguard greeting him. "May I- oh. Good evening, Quinn."

"Dane," Quinn greeted with a nod as he stepped inside. "How are you this fine evening?"

Instead of answering his question, Dane closed the door behind them and crossed his strong, tan arms. "There's a girl down there. Who seems . . . cautious." His brown eyes darted towards the staircase leading downstairs into the tunnel.

"Oh? Why don't you elaborate for me?" Quinn asked curiously, pushing his cold hands inside his warm pockets. "Make it quick though. I have some things that _father_ wants me to take care of." He lifted his chin to stare at Dane; since the bodyguard was a few inches taller than him.

"A girl with a purse. If I could remember clearly, she had long dark hair and green eyes."

Quinn's heart jumped. It can't be the cop . . . can it? He narrowed his eyes, his lips turning down in a frown; his expression menacing. In his gut, he could feel a tug of confirmation that this "suspicious" girl Dane was describing is that idiot; Rashel. That _stupid_ dolt, Quinn thought. "Go on," he said calmly.

"I think," Dane said with a perplexed look, "that Ivan took her upstairs; showing her around."

"God, that bloody _idiot_." Quinn didn't know if he was insulting Ivan or Rashel. Maybe he was insulting both. Ivan for his stupidity of showing a fucking _cop_ around the damned club area; and Rashel for her stupidity of going _alone_ with a killer. "You said they were upstairs?"

"Yeah." Dane nodded, pointing up the stairwell by the parlor. "Heard something about having fun and the girl giggling and nodding."

That can't be Rashel. For all he knew, Rashel never smiled. Nor does she giggle. Unless, Quinn realized with astonishment, that Rashel actually loosened up and _got drunk_.

Whoa, whoa; wait. He shouldn't care about her. Hell, he shouldn't even be thinking about her! But Quinn couldn't just leave her there. He's not even one-hundred percent sure if that girl _is_ her! Only one way to find out though.

"Oh good. He got me a girl; like I asked him to. Do me a favor, big guy," Quinn said as he smirked. "List down those little fuckers that work for Hunter; who are in the club right now. And if one of them chooses to leave before I get back, tell them to stay in this house and wait for me."

Dane nodded dutifully. "You got it."

"Now I'm getting that shit who's probably raping my girl," Quinn said with an icy smile as he walked up towards the staircase near the parlor. He heard Dane's amused laughter before disappearing up the stairs.

That stupid, stubborn idiot! Where the hell are they now? Stupid cop. Quinn looked around, assessing everything as he stared at the hallway with two pathways; one to the right and one to the left. Both directions were dimly lit, the magenta carpet looking like dark blood under his shoes as he headed towards the east end of the hallway. He couldn't hear anything. Quinn moved stealthily under the dim lighting, quietly pushing the doors open as if he was a robber (and he _is_ one; so he's got this mastered). Everything was so quiet. He can even hear his light and very, very quiet footsteps against the carpet.

And Quinn was frustrated.

Just then, he heard laughter from the other end of the hallway. Fortunately enough, the laughter sounded like Ivan's. The other one, he wasn't quite sure. Quinn briskly walked towards the other end of the hallway and pushed the door open.

This was the room with the secret annex that leads to a hidden part of the building. Quinn crossed his arms as Ivan stared at him surprised. The girl beside him, Quinn slowly slid his gaze to the girl with black hair and green eyes, was indeed Rashel Jordan. In a black dress that seemed to cling to her body very comfortably. Sexy; especially with her heels. He raised his eyebrows at her.

The look that the party-cop told him was obviously screaming, "Don't say anything about me."

"Ivan, you fuckup, go downstairs and herd the other shitheads that are working for Redfern," Quinn barked at Ivan.

"Oh come on, John," Ivan said, using his first name just to irritate him. "Have some fun. This princess seems to radiate fun," he winked at Rashel and she giggled, "right?"

"Of course," she said in a voice that Quinn never heard her use.

"Fine," Quinn said, a smile touching his lips as he stared at Rashel, "Leave me with the girl so I can have some fun while you go down and do what I say. Good? Good. Now, go."

Ivan grumbled. He turned to Rashel with an apologetic yet charming smile. "I'm sorry I have to leave you with a grumpy dick such as _John_. That's his name, by the way. That's what you should call him."

Rashel appeared to let out a genuine laugh, amused. "It's okay Ivan."

He grabbed her hand and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on the back of her hand before dropping it. "See you next time, princess." With that, he glared at Quinn and brushed past him.

Quinn and Rashel waited for Ivan to reach the first floor.

"Looking hot tonight, cop," Quinn said appreciatively as he closed the door behind them. He stepped closer and she stood her ground. Defiant, Quinn thought with a smile, I _like_ it.

"Thanks for noticing, John," she said, slightly tilting her head up to look him square in his eyes. "Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Ah, ah, ah," Quinn said in a light voice as he gripped her arm, pulling her close to him. "You're not getting away that easily." He leaned down, his face mere inches away from hers. His eyes were narrowed, his breath was warm against her lips, and his grip was like iron around her arm. "You're going to explain what the hell you're doing in my territory and you're going to explain it _now_."

Rashel licked her lips, not breaking eye-contact. He could see the blush on her cheeks, see the cold sweat that was slowly forming on her forehead, and the dark specks in her eyes that made her eyes . . . more fascinating to look at.

At that moment, Quinn knew that he liked this position. A _whole_ lot. And he knew, that under this tough exterior of the enthralling female cop, that _she_ was enjoying this too.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you so much guys for the reviews! Also, thank you ThunderEmeryce for the advices :) Hopefully, I'll be able to apply them to make my writing better (I even borrowed books on how to write better lol). :D**

**So yeah, whatcha guys think? Thank you so, so, so much for reading/reviewing/subscribing/favorite-ing/whatever-ing this story! :D I greatly appreciate it! I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Btw, I'm a lazy-ass so I'm sorry for the late update and I'm absolutely sorry for not answering any messages! I promise I'll answer soon!**

**Review?:) Thank you! :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

Rashel glared at Quinn before she spoke.

"There's no camera here," she observed. She raised an eyebrow for confirmation. "Right?"

"None," Quinn said. His eyes were so dark . . . so _intense_ on looking at her that she almost gave in to the squirmy feeling he was making her feel. Quinn was, after all, good-looking—for a criminal. He was wearing a dark thick coat, a pair of gray comfy-looking jeans, a white shirt with some logo hidden under his coat, and a pair of rubber shoes. It suited him and his rascal of a personality. He pulled her closer, their chests and legs touching. Now, Rashel could feel the coolness of his clothes . . . and the warmth of his body. "Go on. Why are you here?"

Her heart was in her throat. Rashel prayed that he doesn't know that.

She tried to shake his grip off her arm; but he wouldn't budge. Quinn tightened his grip around her arm.

"Don't struggle. It'll only hurt more," Quinn said in a hard voice.

Rashel scowled, her green eyes appearing as if it was glowing (in anger).

That's the cop I know, he thought amusedly as he smirked at her.

Her face showed her usual defiant expression while frowning at him. "Nothing. I was just having fun."

"Oh? But I'm sure you know Ivan," Quinn said, giving Rashel a shrewd look. He knew that she knows Ivan's profile.

Rashel ignored him, attempting to shake off his grip once again. "There. I answered your question. Now, _move_ aside." God, she really needs to contact the department. Now that she gained some knowledge about this place (courtesy of the disgusting, perverted Ivan the Terrible), Rashel could tell Elliot about the things that are happening within this building. And then ambush these bastards.

"Like I said, you're not getting away that easily." Quinn slid his arm around her waist, pulling their hips together. Her breath hitched, he noted with a sensual smile as Rashel continued to glare at him. Her cheeks were slightly tinted pink.

"What do you want from me?" Rashel whispered-hissed at him. She was struggling; trying to get away from him and his warmth and all his damn temptations. "Let go of me."

"Not a chance," he murmured languidly, stepping forward and forward until he forced Rashel on the wall. He heard the soft _thump_ of her bag hitting the carpeted floor when they reached the wall. His hand slid down to her thigh and she tensed. Quinn was staring at her eyes, becoming so infatuated in the emerald-like color of her sharp eyes. He started rubbing circles on her thigh with his thumb; slowly pushing her dress up.

"Stop that," she whispered, her knees growing weak. Rashel has never been touched like that before. It feels so _foreign_ yet so _good_. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Rashel was preparing to punch him. She was ready to beat him up; for making her feel weak. For—for . . . _this_. Whatever "this" is.

Her arm, however, was locked in place by his iron grip; so she really only has her left arm to get this bastard off of her. But before she could initiate her escape-attempt, Quinn used the hand on her leg to pull it around his waist, pressing his hips against hers. Again.

Rashel bit her lip, her heart pounding rapidly in . . . what, anticipation? Oh God. This can't be . . . happening. She opened her mouth to say something, but she didn't know what to say. There was a warm feeling in her gut; tugging, pulling . . . it was overwhelming. It was making her feel like she's going . . . over the edge.

Quinn bent his head down, leaning closer. She could smell that same manly and musky scent drifting to her senses, feel the hot breath on her neck, and—oh _God_. His lips . . . are on her neck! Soft, warm . . . moving against her neck.

Her arms felt like lead, whereas her legs felt like jelly. This is horrible. She feels so helpless, yet she doesn't . . . want this feeling to stop. Rashel licked her lips, not knowing what to do; not knowing what to _think_.

"Your legs are soft, you know," Quinn murmured against her skin. She felt his hot and moist tongue lightly running on her skin, his teeth gently biting her neck afterwards. "Makes me want to _bite_ them."

Rashel refused to make a sound. She forced herself to gather her wits, trying to ignore the (unfortunately) pleasant feel of his rough hands against her skin. The hand that was gripping her arm earlier slid down to her elbow, eventually cupping the curve of her hip and pulling her other leg around his waist.

"Make some sounds, why don't you?" he whispered in her ear. His lips are hovering over the shell of her ear. Rashel had goosebumps all over her skin, knowing that she might do something involuntary that would give him satisfaction. She shook her head.

"No? Let's change tha-"

Rashel clenched her fist and punched him in the face. She was glad both her arms are free now. Quinn dropped his hands from her legs and groaned, rubbing his face. "Fucking hell."

"I told you not to touch me," she said, bending down to retrieve her small bag. She straightened up, fixing her dress.

"You didn't seem to mind," Quinn pointed out, gruffly. His cheek already appeared swollen.

_RING! RING! RING!_ They both ignored the vibrating and rings of . . . her phone. Her phone was the least of her worries at the moment.

Rashel opened her mouth and closed it again. She couldn't deny what he said; but she's not admitting it either.

"I guess I left a little souvenir for you, too," he said smugly, staring at her neck. Instinctively, Rashel touched her neck—the skin where he was nipping on—and glared. She could feel it; his bite mark. But he didn't even bite her that hard! How could he have left a mark? She would've blushed (maybe she _is_ blushing; her face feels warm) if he wasn't a criminal. But, really, she's furious. How dare he? How _dare_ he?

But then again, she let him, didn't she? She let him do that to her; Rashel let Quinn seduce her—if only for a moment or two. So it wasn't entirely his fault. It was her fault too. But still. It was Quinn who did that to her, and-

She's not making any sense. She _understands_ it's her fault yet she still blames Quinn. She's not making any sense!

You can do this Rashel, she thought to herself while gritting her teeth. You can do this. She'll get Daphne out of the club and they'll drive to the FBI department and report her findings to Elliott. Elliott, she thought with a tiny bit of relief, will fix this. Right?

"I'm getting out of here, whether you like it or not."

"And I'm taking you with me, one way or another," Quinn said with a very Quinn-like grin. She didn't know what the fuck he was talking about . . . which annoyed her. Taking her . . . _where_?

Motherfucking hell! Why is he so . . . _aggravating_? To the point where Rashel just wants to wipe that stupid grin off his face and scream? "I'm not letting you do that." It was clear that her calm voice was hiding the anger that was building and building inside of her.

"Come on then, cop." He positioned his body in a fighting stance. "Show me what you've got."

Rashel threw her purse on the floor. Thankfully, the contents in her bag didn't scatter all over the place or else he'll see her pocket knife and all those other things she carried with her. She set back in her fighting stance as well, clenching her fists so tight that her knuckles turned white. "Let's do this then."

Quinn stepped closer, carefully. His eyes were aware of her every movement; the way she held still, the way her muscles would tense up when he moves . . . captivating. But deadly. She was waiting for him to start the battle. And he did.

He quickly moved closer and faked a punch; in which she reacted by dodging his raised fist. But Rashel didn't realize his intention until she felt his hand locking her wrists together and his right leg blocking her legs; paralyzing her movements. Her back was against his chest, her breath being held in as he ran his lips on her right shoulder.

Rashel sharply shrugged his face off her shoulder. At the same time, she stomped the edge of her heel on his shoe—really hard. She most likely left a dent on his shoe. He groaned, his grip around her wrists didn't loosen, but his leg's guard around her legs disappeared completely.

She couldn't think. Her head was dizzy because of his smell, his lips, the events that just took place, etc. It was taking her a shitload of effort to get her mind straight. And when her mind _did_ clear up, Rashel grasped the fact that, right now, she's trapped.

And the only way to get Quinn off of her was to throw him over her back; like last time. Gathering a great amount of strength, Rashel huffed breathlessly and threw Quinn over her back.

_Crash!_

He crashed against the bookshelf—the secret door! That's her only way out. If she leaves through the main door, Ivan and the others would take her and do things to her. But if she leaves through the secret passageway . . . it was her only chance.

Rashel quickly glimpsed at Quinn and saw him standing up. That was a fast recovery, she thought—amazed. She needs to knock him out. Hopefully, she succeeds this time.

"No doubt, the others would be rushing upstairs now," Quinn muttered, annoyed. He brushed the imaginary dust off his coat and lunged at her. Like, _really_ lunged at her. Rashel ducked and rolled out of the way, grabbing her purse in the process.

Quinn glowered, his dark eyes flashing dangerously as he pushed himself off the floor. They could hear the light footsteps of the other guys (criminals) from downstairs rushing up the stairs.

Think, think, _think_. Rashel couldn't think; she couldn't figure out a way to get out of this. Without a solid plan, Rashel ran to the mahogany desk—that was across from the bookshelf—and used all of her force to shove it towards Quinn.

Quinn was chucked next to the bookshelf, just as he got back on his feet a second earlier, his body getting strike with the heavy desk. He muttered a curse, fleetingly blacking out from the concrete impact of the stupid desk that the cop pushed. He was getting lightheaded with all these slamming! Fucking hell.

Adrenaline was rushing in the cop's veins as she ran, full speed, towards the bookshelf. The guys were getting closer; running to both ways of the hallway. Rashel pushed the bookshelf aside, unintentionally hitting Quinn once again, and slipped inside the dim staircase that led . . . somewhere. She couldn't remember at the moment. She was only following her gut instincts.

The door of the room opened just as Rashel pushed the secret door closed. There were roars of frustration from the room—and she was breathless. But Rashel knew that she couldn't stop running; they'll catch up to her. Unlike the other parts of the building, this hidden part had wooden floors (not carpeted); so her heels were making loud clomps while she ran towards the staircase that led her to the floor below them. Rashel swallowed nervously, attempting to catch her breath on the third or fourth step of the staircase. While doing so, she lifted her leg and pulled off her heels; doing the same thing to her other leg. Now she has to walk barefoot-

Hold on. Her bag. She brought some flat shoes with her! Thank God. The men, however, were pushing the door open by then so she just ran down the stairs with her heels in her hand and her bag slung on her shoulder. Barefoot.

A few seconds later, she reached the bottom of the staircase, anxiously looking around for the exit. Ivan never showed her this room . . .

Her head feels so light and sweaty and hot, despite the cold temperature in the room. She assessed everything again. It was a dark room, so she couldn't see most of the stuff. But-

_Thud, thud, thud, thud . . ._

The crooks are in the secret part of the building. Shit.

She was dead. God, she is so dead. Rashel swallowed her fear and briskly walked towards the walls, using her free hand to feel for . . . for _anything_! She needs to get out of here. She needs to get out. Get out, get out, get out!

Her mind was screaming at her but Rashel took careful and silent steps around the room. The room had desks and chairs with things on top. Things she can't distinguish through the darkness. Things she didn't need to pay attention to. Her heart pumped nervously in her chest. The crooks are coming! Shit, shit, shit, shit—adoorknob! Oh God, a doorknob.

Relief washed through her veins as she turned the doorknob . . . and found out that it was locked. Dread began boiling in her gut. Rashel forced her heels in her bag so that she could use both of her hands. She turned and turned again, her hands starting to feel clammy. Rashel gritted her teeth, cold sweat forming on the back of her neck. She wiped her hands on her dress and pushed her black hair out of her eyes.

"Check the bottom room," the beefy voice boomed and then paused, "The one with the exit, yeah." There were a series of footsteps rushing down the stairs. "Half of you check the floor above. I'll guard this door," the brawny voice ordered. "And check the rooms _thoroughly_."

Rashel licked her lips and pulled out her flat shoes, slipping her throbbing feet in the cool material of her shoes. Her hands were shaking as Rashel gripped the doorknob. This has _got_ to open. It shouldn't be locked. She tightened her fingers around the warm doorknob and turned it again, her bones rigid while Rashel anticipated for the door _not_ to budge. But she could hope.

Fuck.

It's not opening.

I am a dead cop. I am _dead_. Rashel swore under her breath and slammed herself against the wall by the door.

_Click_.

Rashel sucked in a breath as she turned the doorknob and . . . and-

Oh my God, Rashel thought, quickly scrambling out of the door. She quietly closed the door behind her and ran outside. Oh my God! She survived. Without using any weaponry; without even knowing what she let herself into. She's alive. Tousled, maybe, but she's alive.

Rashel cautiously made her way through the pine trees that were tightly compressed together. The sharp branches cut into her flesh while she passed them. Most of the moonlight was getting blocked by the tree branches; although there were some rays that passed and served as her light. With a quiet sigh, Rashel dragged her body and her bag from the back of the building—putting as much distance as she could in her current state (which wasn't much). The relief of surviving a hazardous company washed through her as she hid behind a huge (but random) tree, trying to catch her breath. She needs to . . . take everything in.

Okay, so the exit door was locked. But on the bright side, she only had to push some crap on the wall to unlock it. Anyway, the bastards with Quinn probably realized that she was a cop by now. She . . . did she knock Quinn out? Rashel didn't know. She left before Quinn could retrieve his bearings. There was a dark secret room downstairs that Ivan didn't show her. And . . . she got out without getting herself killed.

Her green eyes darted around her surroundings. Trees everywhere. She suspects that there are over ten to fifteen different kinds of trees here. She was probably at the back of the house. Rashel swept her hair to the side and continued to move through the trees, immediately spotting the exit. She nearly tripped a few times, because of the huge roots that were sprouting up in the soil, but nonetheless, she reached . . . a fence?

Warily, Rashel looked around again. This should be guarded. How come there were no people around this area? Unless . . . unless there were cameras! Rashel cursed under her breath, rapidly making her way out of the backyard. There was over a sixty percent chance that there _are_ cameras in this area. If not, then she was born lucky (although Rashel finds that hard to believe). She faced a broken fence, ants crawling through cracks, and the mossy smell of rocks and soil rising in the air. She swallowed loudly again. Rashel was going to have to break down this fence if she wants to get out. Maybe she could just push it and it would open . . .

She tried it; and it didn't work. She needs to shove it. Put some more force.

Rashel took a deep breath and stepped back, unconsciously rubbing her elbow since she was planning to use it to make herself some type of leeway. She ran towards the broken fence, elbow first-

_RING! RING! RING!_

Her phone was ringing at a loud volume. She couldn't stop her motion though. Or else she really _will_ get caught. Rashel hissed as the sharp wood of the fence broke even more under her force, and the bent nails digging in her elbow; ripping her skin.

"Shit," she whispered, pulling her phone out. It was Daphne. Rashel pressed the 'Ignore' button and focused on her task. She'll call Daphne later—considering that the crooks won't catch up to her. The moonlight finally shone, lighting the street behind the fence. There were presently no people or cars in said-street, so she's safe. Or maybe she was at the end of the street . . .

Rashel shivered, the realization of leaving her coat in the club hit her thoughts while she slightly crouched to fit in the passageway that she made. Deftly avoiding the sharp woods and bent nails, Rashel emerged on the other side, with only a few cuts and scratches on her face and body. Her feet were throbbing from the roots she stumbled upon and felt as if blisters were forming from all the running and escaping she did. The female cop stuck by the shadows as she walked towards the intersection of the blocks.

Two or three blocks, Rashel thought. I can do this.

Her phone rang again. _RING! RING! RING!_ Still with the loud volume . . .

After rummaging for it a few times, Rashel pulled her phone out and saw Daphne's name again. This time, she answered the call. "Daphne. Where are you?"

"Where are _you_? I've been looking for you everywhere! I grabbed your coat when I left the club and I've been trying to contact you but I can't get any stupid receptions here in the car-"

"You're in the car?" Rashel asked, slowly reaching the intersection of the main road and the other streets. She could see the warehouse . . . and she heard Daphne's car starting up via phone call.

"Yes, I'm in the car. Now, where _are_ you? Are you in the cl-"

"No. Pick me up at . . ." Rashel looked at the street's name, "Madison Street. I'm by the sign. Hurry up, so you could drive me to my department. I think that I may have a lead on Hunter." While she was talking, Rashel spied Daphne's car pulling out of the street near the storage house and hurriedly began to drive towards Madison Street.

"You are _so_ going to tell me about everything once you set your foot in my car- oh! I see you!" The line went dead. Rashel slipped her phone in her bag.

Rashel stepped out of the shadows as Daphne watched her worriedly through the window. She opened the passenger's door and sighed loudly, sitting in the comfy seat and leaning back on the soft seat. She shut the door and pulled at her seatbelt.

"One thing's for sure," Rashel said as Daphne sped through the streets, "there are lots of criminal's in that club."

Daphne visibly paled, stopping at a red light. "I hope I didn't make-out with one."

Rashel half-smiled, watching the red light switch to the green light. "I can't guarantee you that."

And then, they sped off towards Rashel's department.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** **ahh, okay. I know this chapter is crappy but I just REALLY, REALLY want to post it up. I've got so much ideas running for this story! So I'm sorry if I repeated so much words in this chapter. Plus, my vocab isn't big. T_T So how is it? Good? Bad?**

**Anyways, thanks Jen for being so funny and supportive and so eager while I wrote this chapter! ;) And thanks Eve for the AWESOME review! (I couldn't give a thank you message to you since I'm lazy to do all those process…) And thank you Annoyomous for the review! :) For rest of y'all, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING/READING/FAVORITE-ING/SUBSCRIBING/WHATEVER-ING THIS STORY! :)**

**Review por favor? I really appreciate guys! :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I know I haven't updated in so long and I'm so sorry about that! But I've got distracted… (`.')p Btw, there's death and killing in this chapter…**

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><p><strong>The Cop and the Criminal<strong>

**.**

"That bitch," Ivan muttered.

"Hey at least we caught her in the cameras," Dane said as he handed the ice pack to their annoyed boss.

"That puny, little . . ." Quinn grunted, pressing the ice pack on the side of his head. A bruise was forming on his shins and hips, the most obvious one being on his cheek. Although he could care less about the purplish black spot on his cheek because of the growing bump on his head. Fucking cop.

"Punk, motherfucker, bitch, asshole," Ivan supplied the grumbling man's open statement. The killer was pissed that he got led on by a _cop_. A cop for fuck's sake!

Quinn grunted again.

"Don't worry, sir," Dane said, glancing at Quinn with a mischievous glint. "We'll get her."

"I _ought_ to fucking get her," Quinn muttered, closing his eyes as he slumped on the hard sofa. "Because I have to give that woman a piece of my mind."

* * *

><p>"We can't help you," said Vicky through the phone on the outside wall.<p>

"Why not?" Rashel asked, irritated. If Vicky only saw her disheveled appearance, then Rashel was sure that the other cop wouldn't have hesitated to help. Hell, Vicky was being irrational right now. And it was _pissing her off_.

"Well, for one, you're suspended. Come ask for our help tomorrow—when you're out of your suspension. Second, I can hardly trust you now; ever since _that night_. And third-"

"Where the hell is Elliot?"

"Out."

"And you're in charge?" Rashel asked.

"Yes," Vicky said. The brunette was trying not to get offended at the green-eyed female's disbelieving tone.

Rashel swore. With Elliot gone, she . . . she's dead. Figuratively speaking; but she _was_ about to be literally dead a few minutes ago. "But I really need your help."

"No can do." This time, there was annoyance laced in her tone. "See you tomorrow, _Rashel_." The line went dead.

The dark-haired cop kicked the locked door and swore again, not minding the pain in her cold, rigid toes. Glaring at the door, she began to formulate a plan while she stepped down the steps—only to be pushed forward with the force of the once-locked door behind her.

"Oh God, I'm sorry! I—_Rashel_?"

It's funny how all apologies stop when you realize you're talking to a person you loathe, Rashel thought as she forced a smile aimed to Nyala. Which looked more of a grimace, actually.

Eyeing Rashel's appearance, Nyala hesitantly stepped forward. Her eyes were curious but still angry. Rashel wondered how much Nyala hated her now. "Rough night?"

She nodded once. "Didn't expect it."

"Let me guess . . . with Quinn?" Nyala snorted, bitterness filling her voice.

Rashel wanted to look down, ashamed of what she did. But she couldn't bring herself to look down. It would be . . . pathetic. "You don't understand-"

"But I _do_-"

"You don't, alright? If _I_ don't understand, then I'm sure as hell that _you_ don't understand. No one takes time to understand anyone anymore!"

Nyala shut her mouth. Rashel never screamed at her. Well, she does when she leads them in an investigation—but never in something so . . . (sort of) personal.

Rashel turned away from her, wrapping her arms around her shivering torso, trying to tighten her coat around her. "John Quinn's in this underground club near the warehouse we investigated a week ago. The club is called The Crypt. Ivan was there, too-"

"Ivan the _Terrible_?" Nyala asked, eyes wide.

Rashel was already making her way towards Daphne's car. Nyala hesitantly yet silently followed. "Yeah. I assumed that there were other criminals in there." The verdant-eyed cop pulled the car door open. "Yeah, well, if you need me, I'll be investigating the-"

"What happened to you?"

Green eyes flickered at the young girl's face. "Nothing. I'll see you tomorrow." Considering that I won't be tempted to initiate my plan tonight, she added silently while slipping a leg in.

Nyala stepped to her side and gently tugged at her arm. "Please," she pleaded. "I want to know what happened."

Daphne awkwardly smiled at Nyala and shifted in her seat, pulling her keys out of the ignition. "Take all the time you need," she said to Rashel—who has half of her body inside the car.

Rashel sighed through her nose, pulling her leg out of the car. Her eyes turned to the curious, _pleading_ female standing beside her. She sighed, loudly this time. "Daphne brought me to an underground club, called the Crypt and . . ." She continued to abbreviate the events (purposely leaving out her little dilemma with the smug bastard of a criminal) and stopped when a shiver ran through her back.

"I'll notify Vicky about this and persuade her to help us-"

"But my suspension-"

"Should be gone in a few hours," Daphne said while tapping her phone's clock . . . that read 10:57PM. "And you shouldn't go back there by yourself-"

"I can handle it," Rashel muttered stubbornly. She can totally handle those bastards.

"Like the way you handled the ones earlier?" Daphne asked. She was simply worried but her tone implied otherwise.

"I handled it better than you would have," Rashel snapped angrily. "Plus, if I was armored then I could've- I would've-"

"We know."

"You need to take a rest, Rashel," Daphne said, a worried look on her face. "I mean, _look_ at you. Bruises and cuts everywhere. What if-"

"This is nothing," Rashel said, shrugging her concern off. Although she was secretly grateful for her friend's concern. She was getting jittery while Nyala crossed her arms thoughtfully, thinking of a plan. "We have to get to them _now_."

Nyala glanced at her. "But we need a plan."

"I know that," Rashel said, "but they probably uncovered my identity now. And so, they'll most likely relocate to another area. ASAP."

"Come on," Nyala said, gently grabbing her elbow. "This is urgent. Important. She _has_ to help us."

Us, Rashel repeated in her head. Had Nyala forgiven her? She didn't dwell on the thought because, soon, Nyala was dragging her inside the department with Daphne following behind. Rashel didn't even tell Daphne to stay in the car because she wasn't part of this investigation. No civilian was allowed to know top secret data that's going to be used during this . . . discussion.

The warm air of the building immediately comforted Rashel. She didn't know how much she missed the department building until now. Rashel was oblivious to her dry cuts and wounds; the most obvious one being on her elbow when she knocked down the fence. Her skin was cut and ripped by the nails. The gray hallways were lit brightly, making Rashel and Daphne wince because they had been accustomed to the darkness outside, and their steps were quiet on the white carpet covering the floor.

Nyala rounded a corner and knocked on the door. "Vicky! Something urgent came up!"

"Come in!" Vicky called from the inside of her office. Every high-ranked cop had one. Rashel was planned to have one next year.

As they entered, Vicky turned her computer chair around, crossing her arms and sending Rashel a steely look. Pale blue eyes as hard as marbles. "What are you-" Then she stopped. Her eyes slid down to her neck, noticing a light pink mark on it, and continued to observe her appearance. Bruises, cuts, and wounds. Vicky felt embarrassed that she didn't let Rashel explain earlier. But she didn't show her bashfulness. She didn't even acknowledge Daphne.

"Someone explain to me. Now."

* * *

><p>Four hours later, a team of ten was conjured up to enter the club. Daphne, Nyala, and Rashel stayed behind by the warehouse; in the cars. They were part of the ten that came, but because of the incident a few hours earlier—and the incident at the warehouse almost a week ago—they didn't want to risk being seen and identified. Vicky was still at the department; but she was trying to contact Elliot. She was trying to call up as many cops as she could.<p>

"I'm nervous," Daphne whispered anxiously beside Rashel. She was gripping her dress so tightly, her knuckles turned white.

"So am I," Nyala said softly. She was repeatedly stroking the butt of her handgun.

The green-eyed cop remained silent. Then, she turned to Daphne. "You shouldn't be here," Rashel said, as if realizing it for the first time. "You're- _we_'re endangering your life by bringing you with us. This shouldn't-"

_Bang!_

Daphne shook, ducking down and covering her ears. "They found us!" she cried, frightened. "Oh my God, they found us!"

"Shh," Nyala hissed, glaring at Daphne. Rashel started the engine of their car, watching young adults run out from the house.

"This is bad," Rashel muttered as she squinted.

_Bang! Bang!_

Quickly, Rashel turned to Daphne. "Call Vicky."

"I'm on it," Nyala replied while holding her phone to her ears.

"I'm going in," she told Daphne. It was a good thing that Nyala had an extra pair of rubber shoes and uniform pants, Rashel thought at random as she pushed the door open. Suddenly, Daphne grabbed her arm, tears in her eyes.

"No, don't go! Don't-"

"You'll be fine. I'll be fine." Rashel nodded to Nyala. "She'll keep you safe." With that, Rashel shrugged her grip off her arm and ran towards the chaotic club, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the hysteric crowd of young adults.

The cop slipped in the house, her blood going cold as a few other people ran out, screaming. She noticed a dead body by the floor. A girl. She kneeled down, already knowing that the lady was dead, but still pressing her fingers on the female's neck. No pulse. Dead. The girl was in a pink dress, her blonde hair stained with blood as blood from the back of her chest and one from her thigh pooled around her. Her blue eyes, dull, was staring lifelessly at Rashel; her mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

Rashel felt her heart lurched. The girl was dead. And she was alive just a few moments ago. The line between life and death sure is thin. She clenched her teeth together, to stop the trembling. Death. It never failed to make her shudder.

"Shit," she heard someone whisper. Someone familiar.

Steve.

Rashel turned around. His right shoulder was bleeding and she winced, her eyes wavering from the wound. "Rashel?" He took a deep breath, his blonde hair mussed. His muscular shoulders were sagging, making it look so painful. And Rashel didn't like it one bit.

"Go back to Nyala," she said, standing up and walking towards him. "Where are the others?"

"We split up." Steve winced once again. "But I killed the crook I was fighting," he muttered. Rashel knew that he doesn't like killing; and only kills when it's necessary.

"Go," she urged. Rashel reached out and gently pushed him towards the door. He shook his head, scowling.

"No way. And give your friend a heart attack?" Steve shook his head.

Her heart warmed at his boyish stubbornness, faintly reminding her of Timmy. Rashel pursed her lips together. She doesn't like backing down when she could still fight either. "Fine. Stay. But you better not get killed."

"I won't; I promise," Steve muttered. Rashel nodded and proceeded to go up the stairs. If there was one escape the crooks took, it was the secret annex up the stairs.

"No one's up there," Steve murmured, following her.

"I hope you're right," Rashel said.

The tense atmosphere surrounding them was so thick that Rashel found it hard to breathe. That, or maybe the blood mixing in the atmosphere was making her dizzy. Blood never appealed to her. Never had, never will.

The hallways were as dim as she remembered from earlier. The carpet looked like blood—and Rashel wondered if the carpet was actually white; just stained with red, red blood from so many bloody fights.

"I'm going to scout that part," Steve said, heading towards the east of the hallway.

Rashel simply nodded, creeping towards the west of the hallway. It was where the annex is and-

"It's good to see you again, Rashel," Quinn said as he stepped out of a room. His face was bruised, but other than that, he appeared well and . . . strong. Recharged, if you will. Rashel straightened, glaring at him. "Your cop friends are interesting, you know. They put quite a fight," he said to her. His eyes were boding evil.

"Rashel!"

Rashel didn't turn, but she heard other footsteps from the other side of the hallway. We're _trapped_, she realized with a growing sense of fear. The cops Vicky summoned weren't enough. We should've realized that were outnumbered. Damn it. _Damn it_.

"Didn't think this through, huh?" Quinn asked amusedly, loving the look on her face.

When she didn't reply, Quinn only sent her one of his curved smiles. "Didn't think so either." Suddenly, he was putting her in a headlock position; his arm tight around her throat as she pushed her forward, _forcing_ her to look at Steve.

"Don't fight," he hissed in her ear. "Or your friend dies." Quinn laughed wickedly. "And your other friend, and your other friend . . ."

"Stop it," Rashel whispered, her eyes boring into Steve's as he shook his head. He was telling her not to stop fighting. But-

"That reminds me," Quinn said as he hadn't heard her, "I need to give you a piece of my mind." He was cheerful while he said it. Rashel couldn't help but feel sick. "Right Ivan?" he called, looking at the person beside Steve. Dane was holding the blonde cop in a headlock similar to his.

"Right!" Ivan replied, enthusiastically. He patted Steve's bad shoulder and Steve gritted his teeth, glaring at Quinn. His shoulder felt like it was _burning_. It hurts so bad. His shoulder bone was probably shattered . . . and Ivan was still patting it. More like . . . _slapping_ it.

"Rashel, listen to me," Steve called from the other hallway, his voice strong. "Remember the promise I made five minutes ago?" She nodded. "I'm going to hold onto that." His eyes were begging for her to fight. She took a deep breath and nodded once.

Rashel glared at Quinn's arm around her throat and leaned her head away from his, gathering as much force, before banging her head against his.

And damn it, it hurt like a bitch.

Quinn swore under his breath and tightened his grip around her throat. His guard didn't loosen, Rashel thought. She planned on throwing him over her again, but Quinn had already ordered Ivan to shoot Steve. And he did.

Steve died in front of her eyes; reminding her of the time her mother died in front of her eyes.

Ivan was grinning crazily, a mad glint in his blue eyes as he shot Steve in the chest—right at his heart—and two on the head. The bullet came in through the right side of his head, and came out from the left side; with his some of brains spilling out. It was downright bloody. Blood was splattered on Dane's shirt, but Dane had an emotionless expression tact. Steve's shirt had a hole on the left side now . . . and he's dead. He's _dead_.

"Steve!" Rashel screamed, her voice high. Her bottom lip was trembling. Steve was her friend. He was alive a second ago. No . . . this can't . . . Steve had to visit his parents this weekend; he was talking about it—nonstop—since last week . . . and now, he's _gone_.

Her eyes stung as she glared at Ivan. "I hope you rot in hell," Rashel spat.

"It won't be that bad," Ivan said as Quinn pressed a cloth on her nose—containing knockout gas. Her head became dizzy and her eyelids felt heavy. "Because I'll be seeing you there."

"In your . . . dreams . . ."

Ivan merely laughed, kicking Steve's dead body down the stairs.

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><p><strong>AN: So… hey guys! Long time no update! I've been trying to finish this chapter for a few weeks now, but only got a burst of inspiration today. Did you guys like it? I sure as heck didn't like the killing part! Please tell me what you think about it! And should I change the rating to M? Or just keep it at T? Anyway, I'm sorry for not being able to update in so long! I need to practice on writing gory scenes. :o**

**Thank you guys so much for everything! :D I really appreciate it!**

**Review? :) I was working on this chapter nonstop for four hours now…so…**


	9. Chapter 9

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

Quinn had his arms crossed over his chest as he stopped to stare at the unconscious cop on his bed.

For the umpteenth time.

He tore his gaze away from the sleeping female on his bed and began pacing by the foot of the bed once again. They were at one of Hunter's buildings in Boston, where two private jets would be sent from Virginia under Hunter's control. These were one of the perks of being high-ranked, rich criminals; they had their own transportation. Good transportation too.

Pulling his thoughts away from that topic, Quinn then mused of what to do when Rashel awakens. He didn't know why he chose to take her; knowing that she could very well destroy everything in Hawaii. And, perhaps, that was his hidden intention all along- to finally get rid of the illegal business that Hunter has been running for decades. But wouldn't that mean that Quinn will be sent to jail for life—maybe even sentenced to _death_ as well?

Death. He didn't feel anything particular towards it. He had always treated death without any strong feelings; hell, without any feelings at all. Because, Quinn repeated in his head, death was nothing personal. It was all business to him, and to other killers.

The only death he considered personal was Dove's. She died of cancer a few years back; and he was just starting to be assigned to "business matters" by Hunter back then. He wasn't present at the time when she died. And he was late for her funeral as well (Quinn remembered going to the funeral in unfitting clothes, disheveled); Quinn was lucky to have even seen her before they buried her deep in the ground.

The depressing memories made him grit his teeth, his eyes glaring hard on the wooden floor. He realized that he stopped pacing, that his heart was suddenly beating hard on his chest as he attempted to focus his thoughts at the present situation. He hated Hunter so much right now.

A deep sigh drew his attention towards the nearly-forgotten-female on his bed.

Blinking the last bits of emotion away from his dark eyes, Quinn rested his gaze upon the verdant-eyed beauty. Her hand was placed over her eyes as she sighed again; then, almost clumsily, Rashel sat up and stared, wide eyed at Quinn. Her face was vulnerable; her mouth parted, her eyebrows furrowed, a look of horror on her face—before her mask of steel appeared.

And by "mask of steel" Quinn meant her typical defiant look.

"I see that you're awake," Quinn said, stalking over to the side of the bed.

"Where am I?" Rashel asked, no sense of trepidation traced in her voice. Instead, there was fury. "Where the _hell_ am I, Quinn?"

"Calm down," he said while rolling his eyes. "The jets will be here soon so-"

"The _jets_?" Rashel interjected rudely. She slipped her hand towards her holster and . . . her gun wasn't there. Well, of course! Any person offender in their right state of mind would get rid of their victim's weapons. Why would Quinn be a difference? Oh right, he's not _exactly_ in his right state of mind . . . "What did you do to my weapons? Am I the only one you brought here to this," she looked around the room—swiftly, "this _place_?"

"You're still in Boston," Quinn said airily. He sent her a curved smile. "As for your weapons, they were taken care of. And, no, you're not the only brought here. There was this other cop . . . and that friend of yours."

Her heart leaped out of her chest; what did he mean by that? Surely, _surely_, he didn't mean Daphne . . . right? But if he did, then he must mean Nyala as the "other cop" . . . oh no, _please_ no. "Where are you taking us?"

"Perhaps I could call it a vacation," Quinn murmured thoughtfully. "To Hawaii."

"_Hawaii_?" Rashel exclaimed in disbelief. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Quinn snorted. "Afraid not, my dear cop." His fingers were twitching to brush her hair out of her face. He didn't know why, but the urge was there. He dropped his arms to his sides and put his hands in his pockets. Hopefully, the weather in Hawaii was better than Boston.

As soon as realization hit her, Rashel straightened on the bed with her fists on her lap. She was willing to fight, even without her weapons. And Quinn predicted as much.

"Don't fight, or you'll lose one of your friends." He didn't waste time on breaking her hopes of escape.

Rashel gave him a furious look. At least, she thought with little smugness, that the bruise is still—kind of—on his cheek.

"Why?" she asked, "Why are we going there? This is kidnapping-"

Again, he snorted. "Oh yeah, like we've never done that before."

Rashel glared, her eyes blazing with anger. Her heart was beating hard against her chest, for she was afraid of what would happen to her friends; she could care less what would happen to herself—but her friends didn't deserve this.

She continued to glare at him, even when Ivan the Terrible knocked on the door and announced that the jets had arrived.

"Come along, cop," Quinn said. Rashel shook her head, staying rooted on the spot—on the bed.

He bit back a sigh, not wanting to drag her out of the bed because he didn't get a wink of sleep. And he was hungry too. Faintly, Quinn wondered if the cop was hungry as well. As he roughly pulled on her wrists and almost carried her out of his bed, Quinn thought that Rashel _must_ be hungry; except she's probably too anxious to feel it. He hauled her towards the door, patting his pockets with one of his hands to see if he had any snack bars and instead found keys to the metal cuffs he was going to put around her wrists.

Suddenly remembering his half-eaten snack bar on the small desk beside his bed, he pulled Rashel towards him and stalked towards his brown desk. He hastily grabbed it and gave it to Rashel. "Here," he said, uncaringly. Though his actions were implying otherwise.

Despite her anxiety, Rashel heard her empty stomach growl—knowing that Quinn also heard it. She stared at the half-eaten snack bar, glaring at him. "I don't want that."

"Oh yeah? Aren't you a tad bit hungry though?" he asked sarcastically. With his left hand, he pushed the snack bar towards her lips. She turned her head.

"Even if I am, I'm not going to eat something you bit off from," Rashel said indignantly.

"My saliva won't burn you, you ungrateful cop," Quinn said. "Seeing as you probably won't be able to eat anything until later this evening, you should take it."

Rashel stared at the snack bar and scowled. "I don't want anything from you."

"Suit yourself. Starve to death if you want," Quinn said with a shrug and pulled her towards the door, holding his snack in between his teeth. He grabbed the metal cuffs hanging from the back of his door and secured them around her wrists—behind her. Then, he took her elbow in his hand and led her out the door.

Rashel glowered until she reached one of the private jets, which was outside the building- well, it's more of a house in the middle of nowhere with a _really_ big front yard and thickly enclosed with trees . . . but nonetheless, a building. One of Hunter's buildings, she assumed.

The front yard was covered in brown dusty soil; almost as hard as pavement, but not quite solid. If you dug the toe of your shoe in the ground with more force than necessary, then the ground will likely giveaway.

The cop squinted through the dusty atmosphere, coughing softly because of the floating dusts in the air. The smooth hum of the jets was louder now. She hardly heard them in the room—Quinn's room—but as they neared the outside of the house, Rashel felt her bones vibrate at the sound. And then, she felt her heart sink to her stomach.

Because, as soon as Quinn forced her in the first jet, she saw Daphne. Her friend was sitting at the back end of the jet, her hands also cuffed- but it was cuffed in front of her. She wasn't looking so good though; her eyes were red and puffy, and her face was dry with tears- she looked horrible. Especially her eyes. They were wide and frightened, frantic and almost hysteric. Rashel wanted to touch her shoulder and soothe her. She wanted to push her out the jet and scream at her to run as she beat the living lights out of these crooks.

When Quinn pushed her down a seat, it was then that Rashel realized that her fists were clenched and shaking.

He leaned down, leveling his face with hers. A smile graced his lips while he stared into her green eyes. "You've got a murderous glint in your eye, cop."

Through gritted teeth, Rashel glared at him and said, "Let her go."

Quinn laughed humorlessly, sitting on the seat beside her. "No can do."

Her wrists felt sore behind her, the material of the metal cuffs poking her back as she slightly leaned on it. "She's innocent. She didn't do anything."

"She can either stay or die. Not much of a choice, huh?" Quinn conversed casually, pulling a headphone from the side of his seat. His eyes flashed, amused, at the flat screen TV in front of them. "Oh look. Titanic."

"Where's the other cop you've mentioned?" Rashel asked, ignoring Quinn's attempt at nonchalant conversation.

"On the other jet. Hunter's minions are worried that you and that kid would exchange some secret police language to each other, so they thought that it's best to separate you two."

"And you weren't supportive of the idea?"

"Frankly," he said, "I could care less who rides what jet and such. If one chooses to escape, I say shoot them. We could always pick up other girls in Hawaii," Quinn said. He sent her a sideward glance, smiling sardonically. "Now relax and enjoy the show."

Rashel grumbled, glaring at the screen. She'll get Daphne out of here. And the other cop. Rashel doesn't know how she'll do it, but she _will_ do it. For the sake of saving their lives.

It was part of her job, after all.

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><p><strong>AN:** **Quick update? Anyway, next chapter would be about them reaching Hawaii (obviously). 'Tis nearing its climax. I already know what's gonna happen at the end, but augh. JUST AUGH. You guys will find out in the future~ ;)**

**Thank you so much guys for everything! I greatly appreciate it!**

**Review? :) I'll be happily working on the next chapter…;D**


	10. Chapter 10

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

"Wake up," Quinn ordered, nudging her shin with his foot.

Rashel snapped her eyes open, her gaze unfocused. Once her eyes became steady, she clenched her teeth and threw him the harshest look she could manage. Her stomach was empty, her brain was foggy, and, damn it, her wrists were aching like crazy.

Quinn sent her a smile in return and pulled her up by the elbow, roughly pushing her out of the jet. "Did you think of an escape plan yet?" he asked her, keeping his grip on her elbow.

Rashel snubbed him, giving him the silent treatment. No, she hasn't thought of an escape plan yet; but even if she did, she wouldn't have said yes.

Compared to Boston, Hawaii was warm. The air was humid and moist, the palm trees were shadowing them from the bright hot sun . . . and Rashel calculated that it had been approximately nine hours from the time they left Boston. It was probably around one in the afternoon now. Sand was hitting their shoes and Rashel wondered if she could kick some sand into Quinn's face (preferably, his eyes) so that she could, at least, _try_ to escape . . .

"It's such a lovely afternoon, don't you think?" Quinn said casually, his grip on her elbow never wavering as he crossed the distance from the jet to a building that looked like a house. A beach house for that matter.

"Where's Daphne?" Rashel asked. She cursed herself for sleeping in the stupid jet. She cursed herself for not being able to think of an escape plan. _Nine_ hours. She had nine hours to think of a plan—of a good-enough plan and only spent three on that. She wasted six of those nine hours sleeping. And because she hardly knew where they were going to be in Hawaii (which includes the place's background and blue prints and the likes), she couldn't think of an opaque plan.

One she _had_ thought of was run. It was silly and unreasonable, but she had imagined doing that. Although in reality, it would be futile since they were unarmored _and_ outnumbered _and_ they don't know where they are.

"Over there," Quinn said, using his thumb to point behind them. He pushed the door open and Rashel glanced behind her shoulder.

Her relief of seeing Daphne breathing and alive dispersed as she saw Nyala at gunpoint.

She suddenly halted. Rashel fisted her fingers and bit her tongue from screaming her friend's name. Why was her friend at gunpoint? Her blood ran cold as the man, whom she identified as another crook named Rudi, only smiled.

Fortunately enough, her captor had stopped to greet Rudi. Quinn raised his hand in a half-wave. "You know Rudi," he stated. "A decent criminal body guard. Although I don't know why Hunter wants him along. Maybe he really _is_ paranoid," Quinn muttered, almost as if talking to himself (and perhaps he was).

Her heart was in her throat, and she never kept her eyes off of Nyala. She was seething at the man, not showing any fear—but Rashel knew that she was afraid. Rashel knew that stance very well. Slightly bent knees, stiff form, curled fists . . . it was like an animal trying to defend itself but not wanting to show its apprehension.

"You talk that way to me again," Rudi was saying in a laconic voice, "then I'll kill you. Less mouth to feed and more food for me." He stepped closer, the gun inching closer to Nyala-

And then she pulled the gun towards her and twisted his arm, taking the gun in her possession. Now _she_ held the pistol in her hand, and was holding _Rudi_ at gunpoint. Rudi scowled. Nyala's hands were shaking. Rashel caught her breath in her throat.

Because, in an instant, all guns from the captors—with the exception of Quinn—were pointing at Nyala, ready to shoot.

"No, no, no," Rashel whispered, her nails frantically scratching the metal cuffs around her wrists. Desperately, she turned to Quinn—knowing that he could stop this. "Tell them to drop their guns. Don't let them shoot her. _Please_."

"So what if they shoot her?" Quinn asked, watching the scene in interest. The guys were smiling and exchanging looks, ready for the kill.

"I . . . I won't . . ." Rashel wrung her wrists. "I won't fight you anymore. Just tell them to stop." She could hear Daphne whimpering by Ivan, who was swinging his gun from left to right. "And tell Ivan to stop. _Please_. Just don't harm them." She was beginning to feel even more desperate than she already is when Quinn didn't respond soon.

"And by 'fight' . . . you mean . . ." Quinn amusedly turned to her, blocking her view from Nyala. "Hold your fire!" he called out to them. Indeed, he has authority over them for the crooks gritted their teeth and paused their action of pulling the triggers.

"Fight you, resist you, whatever!" Rashel said, her head growing light. She was so anxious that she couldn't feel her hunger anymore. Perhaps the anxiety mixed with hunger was making her feel dizzy. She couldn't even think straight. "Just . . . just don't harm them."

"Are you _mental_?" Rudi screamed at Quinn, glaring. Nyala was still holding him at gunpoint.

"Don't move!" Ivan told Nyala, pulling Daphne to his chest and pressing the gun against her temple. "Or _she_ dies." Then he smiled. "Better yet, drop the gun and step back before I kill this lady. I'll give you seven seconds. One . . ."

Rashel was watching them in sick horror.

"Three . . ."

He skipped two, Rashel thought. Nyala, just drop the gun . . .

". . . five . . ."

"Well, since you _are_ begging," Quinn said in mocked thoughtfulness. "And you said you won't resist me anymore . . ." He continued to hum thoughtful sounds. He turned his back on her. "Drop your arms!" Then Quinn turned back around, pulling her by the waist. "You ought to keep your promise, cop. Or I'll let them harm your beloveds. So their safety sort of solely depends on you."

"You crazy asshole!" Rudi yelled as the guys unwillingly lowered their arms. Nyala still kept the gun up, still kept Rudi at gunpoint with trembling hands.

She was shaking her head. "I swear I'll kill you," she was saying.

"Better watch your tongue," Quinn called over his shoulder while dragging Rashel out of the scene. Rashel wanted to dig her heels on the ground and stop, but knew better. They could kill Nyala. And Daphne . . . in less than a second too. "Or I'll cut it off," he finished with a calm voice.

"Aw come on, _John_!" Ivan hollered, raising the gun in the air and pulling the trigger towards the sky.

_Bang!_

It made Daphne jump and cower in fear. Rashel squeeze Quinn's arm to remind him of Ivan. They stopped.

"I'll kill you too, you know," Quinn added, glancing at Ivan. "For insubordination and the likes."

Ivan scowled and roughly pulled Daphne through the door. "Whatever, John."

"It's Quinn, stupid," Quinn said. He turned to Dane—who was just entering the door—and nodded to him. "Unarm that silly cop."

"Boss, where do we-"

"Don't come near me or I'll shoot you!" Nyala screamed. Rudi was frozen in his place, glaring at Nyala. Nyala was yelling at Dane, who had moved closer in regards of his boss's orders.

Dane raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "Pipe down. Just drop the gun and we won't-"

"Hurt me?" Nyala interrupted, laughing bitterly. "Oh, that's not true. We all know that's not-" She yelped, suddenly finding her body on the ground with Rudi on top of her. The gun slid away from her loosened grasp. Rudi had pulled her leg and sat on her.

"Payback's a bitch," he said to Nyala, a deathly aura surrounding him.

Nyala glared, her insides shaking but her hard stare fierce. "So is karma," she spat.

Quinn simply laughed. "Got bitched by an officer, Rudi!" he called, amusement in his voice.

"Fuck off," Rudi muttered, but Quinn didn't hear. Quinn was already rounding the corner when Dane stopped him.

"Boss, where do we leave the ladies?"

"Same place you kept the others," Quinn said with a shrug. Rashel glimpsed at Quinn, wondering if he was personally taking her to their little prison. How sweet of him—not.

Dane sent a look towards Rashel. "What about her? She staying with the others?"

"Nope," Quinn said with a curved smile. "She's coming with me."

"To _your_ quarters, sir?" Dane asked, astonished. He continued to walk with them, knowing that the guys at the front will know what to do when something goes wrong.

"Yep," Quinn murmured. Rashel wanted to drop her jaw and strangle him. Dane appeared like he wanted to ask something else, but only nodded and walked away. Rashel quickly swept her eyes around the wooden hallways of the house. It was beautiful—classically beautiful. The walls were bare, the hallways were empty, and Rashel faintly wondered if anyone even _lived_ in this building.

"I- why are you taking _me_ to your room?" Rashel asked, once Dane was out of sight.

"Is there a problem?" Quinn asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"This whole thing is a problem!" she exclaimed as he pulled a key from his pocket. She was certain that it wasn't the key for her cuffs.

"Then it's not a problem," Quinn said. With one hand, he unlocked the door they were in front of and pushed it open, pulling Rashel in. There, she saw two neat beds across from one another, a wooden desk in between, a lamp by the right side, and a ceiling fan on the ceiling. A wooden sliding door was on the left leading to a bathroom, near another wooden sliding door—which Rashel assumed was the closet.

"How come you're not letting me stay with the others?" she asked.

"Is it bad for a man to want something?" he asked, rolling his eyes. Rashel repressed a frustrated sigh. He's been answering her questions with questions of his own! It's so aggravating!

She glowered. She was so tempted to kick him. When Quinn slipped his arm from her waist, Rashel decided whether or not she should . . . _no_, she thought while thinking of Daphne and Nyala, they're going to die if I fight . . . but . . .

"I'm sure you're tired," Quinn said while sitting on the left bed. He didn't say anything else. It was an indirect invitation, Rashel realized, to sleep on the other bed . . . but _why_ would he even care for her well-being? He should've let her stay with the other girls . . .

Cautiously, the cop made her way to the bed on the right, sitting on the edge, slightly facing Quinn. He was pulling his shoes off, his movements casual yet his eyes alert. Quinn looked up, sighing. "Alright, what's with the staring?"

"Why are you acting like this?" she blurted out. She wasn't thinking. She _knew_ she wasn't thinking. But how could Rashel think with jumbled thoughts and an empty stomach? Seriously, who could think through that?

"Acting like what?"

"_This_. You act as if- as if . . ." Rashel felt so dizzy. Her cheeks hurt and her stomach hurt and her head hurt and . . .

Quinn only raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. "I told you to eat the snack bar, didn't I? You idiot," he muttered just as Rashel dropped on the bed with a soft _thump_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey guys :) I'm sorry it's crappy! Just wanted to publish it right away so I could get on with other stuff… And I'm sorry I hadn't thanked you guys via PMs! I'm just a bit busy, since the school year is about to end. And y'all know how IMPORTANT grades are when you're transitioning into high school. :I I gotta study like CRAZY (surprisingly since I hardly study) for the finals and HSAs and the likes. I'm just letting y'all know about this because it might take a LOOONG while for me to update, since I haven't written out the rest of the story (unlike some of my stories…). And blah. Sigh.**

**Thanks so much guys for everything! **

**May I receive a review? :")**


	11. Chapter 11

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

Rashel didn't want to wake up.

It was warm under the covers, and her bed was comfy. She was having a dream; about getting kidnapped by Quinn . . . Daphne almost getting killed, _Nyala_ almost getting killed . . . she wasn't even sure if it was a dream or a _nightmare_. Her mind was too tired, too vulnerable to think. The smell of sausage and eggs drifted to her nose and she felt her stomach growl. Turning in her bed and feeling hot all over again, Rashel scowled and rolled over to a cool side.

"Wake up, o cop," a deep voice dramatically said from the foot of her bed.

Groggily, she opened her eyes. And sat up so instantly, she nearly knocked the plate by the desk. "Quinn," she hissed.

He gave her a crooked smile. "Good morning to you too."

"What did you do to me?"

"Nothing. You fainted." Quinn hooked his thumbs in his pockets and sent her a sardonic smile. He looked so much of a rogue; especially with his mussed dark hair, fathomless dark eyes . . . "Next time, accept the things I give you. They're pretty necessary."

"Damn you," she muttered. Verdant eyes glared at coal-like ones. She wanted to jump him and knock him out.

He shrugged, nodding to the plate on the desk. "Eat."

Immediately, she said, "It has food poisoning."

"How would you know?" Quinn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, isn't it simple logic? You're a criminal, I'm a cop. We hate each other. It's an easy kill; especially since I'm star—" She shut her mouth. Her tummy was hurting and her head was light. The teasing scent of food made its way into her nose. And she didn't want Quinn to know that she was _hungry_; even if he already knew.

"Starved?" Quinn asked, amused. "Didn't want to admit it, huh?"

Rashel simply glared at him.

"It's not poisoned, you idiot," he said.

"I'm not an _idiot_." Rashel clenched her hands around the white sheets. He has that smug look on his face, and Rashel wanted to wipe it off.

He ignored her and headed over to the desk. He forcefully pushed her to give himself some space on the bed, and sat down, placing the plate on his lap. Quinn was smiling that curved smile again. "I'll just force it down your throat then."

Why is he doing this? What's he planning? Does he actually _care_ about her? That thought was so absurd, Rashel wanted to guffaw. "Why is it so important to you?"

"_What_'s so important to me?" Raised eyebrow.

"Why is my well-being so important to you?" Rashel asked, her eyebrows dipping forward.

With a shrug, he answered, "I have my reasons."

She scowled some more. He took the fork and stabbed the sausage with unnecessary force, making a loud clinking sound on the plate. "Eat," Quinn repeated. Rashel kept her lips pursed tightly. Quinn pressed the sausage to her lips, coating her dry lips with oil. Rashel glowered, her blood boiling. Such a persistent, annoying, little . . .

There was a knock on the door.

"The food ought to be fucking gone when I come back," he told—_ordered_—Rashel, placing the slightly warm plate on her lap. He stood up from the bed, brushed some imaginary dust off his lap, and began walking towards the door.

"And what if I don't?" she asked. Just because she felt the need to piss him off.

But Quinn only smirked over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, there are punishments." Without another word, he grabbed something hanging around the doorknob and exited the room. There was click that echoed in the room from the outside. Rashel glared at the door.

She hates him so much.

Rashel looked around the room. The smell was intoxicating her mind, and she really needed to focus. What if I just eat one _tiny_- Rashel stopped her thoughts. No. Surely, she'll die within five minutes of eating this cynical (yet delicious-looking) food. She just _shouldn't_ eat this. So Rashel put the plate back on the desk and swung her legs to the side of the bed, her shoes touching the cool, wooden floor. She stealthily made her way towards the door, unlocked it, and wrapped her fingers around the knob, twisting it to the side. She pulled at it, an immature sense of hope growing in her chest before dispersing as hurriedly as it came. There was something restraining it from the outside. Of course; she's locked in. She started to drag herself back to the bed.

She felt so hollow. And, as she glanced towards the bathroom—the bathroom door was wide open—she saw her reflection in the circular mirror; noticing the vague dark circles underneath her eyes, her untidy ponytail, and her wrinkly clothes. Uniform clothes. Rashel bit her lip, letting the realization of getting kidnapped sink in her mind. Their raid two or three nights ago felt like _weeks_ ago. Elliot and Vicky must be worried like shit right now. She wondered if they found Steve-

_Steve_.

"He's dead," Rashel whispered, her heart aching. Steve was dead. She tried to save him, but only managed to get him killed. Steve had to visit his parents this weekend too. No, Steve was supposed to visit his parents _today_. Her knees suddenly became weak and she slowly dropped on the floor, her hands and knees pressed against the cold, cold floor. Quinn ordered Ivan to kill him. Ivan shot him. Both of them killed him. Would he still be alive if she hadn't struggled? She fisted her hands once again.

Pressure. That's what she was feeling. Emotionally pressured. She's kidnapped along with other girls, Steve was dead, she can't contact her department—or anyone for that matter—and . . . anger rushed through her. Hunter. He's _here_. Perhaps under the same roof. He's so close; he's finally _tangible_. After so many years of tracking him down, Rashel finally found him. The urge of crying disappeared quicker than she thought possible. It was replaced with the sensation of . . . of reprisal. Vengeance for her mother and little Timmy.

Crawling towards Quinn's bed, she peered underneath his bed with a tight smirk, the corner of her mouth twisted up. She was going to kill Hunter. Maybe she'll even use Quinn to her advantage. She _has_ to use him; that's for payback too. Now that she has another goal besides escaping with the other girls, her mind gradually began the turning of its wheels to create plans.

But first, she needs food. And there was no way Rashel was going to eat the ones on that plate. So she opted on finding—_attempting_ to find some—food in this room. Certainly, he keeps some kind of . . . stash. Somewhere. And if he keeps it for himself, then it's evidently not poisoned.

There was nothing under his bed, she noted while turning her head to the side to check underneath _her_ bed. Nothing. There was nothing there either. Sighing, but not giving up, Rashel pushed herself up from the floor and flexed her arms and legs. The floor wasn't dusty. It was clean—surprisingly—for a criminal. Or maybe Quinn was just a neat freak. She snorted at the idea. Rashel quickly moved to the desk and pulled at its drawer. Bare.

"This place is so . . . _empty_," Rashel said aloud, rubbing her hand over her face. She was growing irritated at the bareness of this place. There were no clues, no proof, of anything that happened—of anything that's going to happen. It was eating her alive. No person can be _this_ clear of evidence. But then again, this was John Quinn.

And she was in his _room_. His personal space. It sounded so ridiculous.

Rashel gritted her teeth and stalked towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut. She wanted to trash his room; to break the mirror, his windows, rip off the sheets, break the desk . . . Rashel lifted her eyes and saw her reflection for the second time. Unkempt. She looked so shabby; Daphne would never have approved. She scowled again. Daphne. Nyala. They were all somewhere in this building . . . trapped, tortured, something!

Rashel sighed through her nose and opened the faucet, splashing cool water on her face. For a moment, when Rashel closed her eyes against the droplets of water, she pretended that she was back in Boston; that her life was back in its routine. It was short-lived. Her eyes were still closed as she blindly opened a . . . a closet next to the shower-bathtub and grabbed a clean face towel. After wiping her face dry, Rashel pulled the towel down and squinted at the contents of the closet.

There were towels at the top shelf, condoms squished to the side (disgusting, Rashel thought), men colognes, extra toothbrushes and toothpastes, and other bathroom-necessities that a normal man would need. Her eyes grazed the drawer at the bottom and she squatted down, pulling it warily. Different possibilities of what could be in the drawer flashed in her head, but all she found was . . . food.

Just five pieces of nutrition bars (do they really count as food?); but she felt victorious of accomplishing _something_. Nearly yelling in triumph, Rashel only let herself sigh in feat as she pulled two or three snack bars. She devoured them in less than three minutes and soon felt thirsty.

Well, Quinn didn't leave any beverages either, so . . . perhaps she was meant to drink from the faucet? She couldn't give a damn anymore since her throat was so dry. Plus, having something clear-enough to drink is fine with her. It's not like the water in the faucet were poisoned as well. Rashel pushed the drawer closed and shut the closet's door, crumpling the wrappers in her hand as she threw them in the trashcan under the bathroom's sink. She opened the faucet once again and placed her hands together to make a cup (or bowl?) with her hands. Rashel dipped her head and gulped down the cool water. It raced down her arid throat and she sighed in relief.

Five minutes later, Rashel sat on the bed with her legs crossed, her elbow resting on her thigh and her chin on her fist. She was thinking of a plan, now that she can function properly, and was mulling over the idea of seducing Quinn in order for him to help her. Would it work?

And that's when she realized that John Quinn took her cuffs off.

* * *

><p>An hour passed when Quinn rounded the corner towards the hallway where his bedroom was located.<p>

He was pissed, yet remained very calm on the outside. Hunter zeroed in on him in the past hour, saying that he wasted almost half a million dollars for taking expensive trips and whatnots. And what did Quinn say?

"It's the least a rich, wanted criminal could do to enjoy his life."

It was true, at some point, because _Quinn_ didn't choose to lead this life. He was young and naïve when Hunter took him from the streets two decades ago. He didn't know that Hunter was one of the top wanted criminals in the world. He didn't know that Hunter was an obnoxious man. He only thought that Hunter was a well-off businessman, wanting to have a son—an _heir_, not an heir_ess_—to run his business.

But no.

Hunter wanted someone that's not related to him, yet attached to him in some way, to inherit his illegal businesses. He didn't want any of his daughters to get in these things he's in, because he believes that his daughters will not be able to survive in this dark part of trading. Hunter didn't want his daughters to be targeted by other illegal business owners. So, for a couple of years, he tried to find the perfect son; one who has the _potential_ to run his business, one who can easily strategize a new plan when something unexpected happens- and who better than to let John Quinn handle it?

Quinn sighed through his nose with his teeth clenched. Stupid Hunter. Stupid business. He unlocked the hi-tech locked that he, and some few others, owned, then pushed the key in the doorknob; only to have found it disengaged. Hm, so the cop _did_ try to escape. It was a really good thing he had that special lock on the door. He pushed the lock inside his pocket and entered the room, closing the wooden door behind him.

His dark eyes immediately landed on the dark-haired cop sitting on the bed. Rashel looked serene, but the hard stare she was giving him gave away the fury running in her body. Her hair looked tidy, and his mind thought of so many ways how to mess that up. And her clothes. Second, he noticed that the plate of food was on the desk, untouched- and then his mind raced back to what he said before he left her in the room.

"I _did_ warn you," he said, shifting closer to her in a predatory manner. There was a wicked spark in his eyes that made Rashel's insides shudder. Whether from pleasure or trepidation, she didn't know.

She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze as he stared down at her. Narrowing her eyes, Rashel let a challenging smirk appear on her lips. "Go ahead. _Bite_ me."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's goatshit: Alright, I've got a list of excuses but I'll spare y'all. Let's just say, I was busy and I'm sorry it took a month for me to update. I just literally started writing this chapter yesterday. I'm so, so, so SORRY! But don't you worry your little head off, darlin'. And, ooh, should I write out what this punishment is supposed to be? :3 I honestly don't know what it is yet (it's a spur of the moment thing), but I'll manage to think of one. I hope. How'd you guys like the chapter? Was it boring?<strong>

**Thank you so much guys for reading! And for everything you've given/done to this story! :) Domo arigato! :D**


	12. Chapter 12

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

"In a literal sense, or are you just taunting me?" Quinn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You decide for me. Which do you prefer?" Rashel replied teasingly, a hint of sensuality coating her words. Her heart, however, was beating wildly in her chest because she could imagine Quinn seeing through her act and-

"You're actually willing?" he asked, a bit taken aback- although, nonetheless, amused. "Not that I'm complaining," he added with a wink.

"Well," she said, briefly lowering her eyes to look down at her lap. She needed a moment to refocus and decide whether or not she should knock him out . . . but if she did, then Daphne and Nyala would be killed. She needed to decide . . . Rashel lifted her eyes and unconsciously licked her lips. "We both know you want the literal sense."

Quinn smirked, catching her chin in between his thumb and forefinger. Was he going to kiss her? Rashel glanced at his lips. He leaned down, leveling his face to hers. He then turned her face to the side and pulled at the collar of her shirt, exposing her neck. "Yep. I definitely want the literal sense." What was he talking about? What- _oh_. Oh. The mark on her neck . . .

With his face so close to her skin, Rashel wanted to move away. Well, partially. Part of her being wanted to pull him closer. That part, she concluded, was the irrational side. The verdant-eyed cop let out a breath when he pulled away. Rashel recovered from her moment of relief and, despite feeling cold under his concentrated gaze, said, "It's hot in Hawaii, huh."

A sense of achievement bubbled vaguely in her chest, but was soon squashed by the edgy hammering of her heart. With stiff fingers, Rashel slowly unbuttoned the top of her craggy uniform shirt and continued unbuttoning her top until she reached the fourth button. _Enough_, she thought while stopping her fingers on the fourth button, this is enough.

Rashel forced her eyes to stay on Quinn's, as his followed the movement of her fingers and traced the outlines of her cleavage. He swallowed with difficulty and locked his jaw while tearing his gaze away from her chest.

"You obviously want something," Quinn remarked, crossing his arms.

"We all want something," she replied with narrowed eyes.

"It must be worth it if you're trying to seduce me," he stated, smiling amusedly. He held up a hand. "Let's see . . . you want your freedom, you want to save your friends, you want to kill Hunter, you want to kill _me_, and . . ." Quinn paused, four of his fingers raised as he listed the things he thought Rashel wanted (and he was mostly right), "what else do you want?"

"Real food," Rashel muttered sarcastically. "Sleep; a normal life."

"So do I," Quinn said, nodding his head. "So do I." He glanced back down at her chest before strolling towards his bed and jumping on it, face placed against his pillow. "Just button it up, Rashel," came the muffled order.

Clandestinely and utterly flabbergasted, Rashel gave her captor a suspicious look before buttoning up her shirt. Sliding her legs down the side of the bed, Rashel faced Quinn with a frown. First of all, Rashel can't recall a time Quinn called her by her name. Second of all, correct her if she's wrong, but wasn't _he_ trying to seduce her a few nights back? And lastly, why did he just ignore her like that- after that stunt she pulled? Did she succeed in seducing him? Or should she just drop the plan?

Quinn groaned loudly, shifting his head so that he could face her. His cheek was pressed down on the white pillow and he tiredly raised his eyebrows. "Can you stop staring? I know I'm sensually handsome, but I need eyes off me once in a while," he told her.

She would've laughed, really, at him- if it weren't for this whole Hunter and kidnapping-the-cop situation she's in. Rashel resumed looking at him, curious and cautious. "No punishment?" she asked undecidedly.

Quinn watched her, thinking. _Should_ he punish her? God, he wanted to jump on her when she unbuttoned her shirt (which was why he jumped on his bed instead); wanted to kiss her until her lips turned swollen, wanted to leave marks on her unblemished skin. He didn't know what made him think this way, since he was certainly _not_ attracted to her.

Well, perhaps just a bit.

The dark-haired male shrugged. "I'm honestly torn between a strip tease and feeding you to the sharks." At this, Rashel sent him a hard stare that could cut through glass. Quinn noticed that she hadn't been parrying him away from herself, and saw the loathing compliance as an alternative. He smirked at her, nothing genuine- but probably as close as it could get. "You're pretty tough; risking yourself for your friends."

Her eyebrows fell just an inch above her blazing green eyes. She didn't say anything, and simply clenched her jaw tightly and turned away from him, pulling her knees up the side of the bed and to her chest.

"You must really like your friends," Quinn carried on, turning on his back and folding his arms behind his head, his eyes looking up at the ceiling.

She remained tacit.

"Why?" he asked, dark eyes sliding across the distance between them and observing the cop's face. The way her jaw tightened, how her lips pursed as she ingested dryly, how her eyes stayed on the wooden door . . . "Why do you care about them?"

When he was met with silence, he absently added, "They'll be gone, you know. Everyone you care about."

Finally, Rashel turned her infuriated gaze on him. "Yeah? Like yours?" she snapped bitingly.

A corner of his lips twitched up. "Exactly like mine."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that you're wrong." The cop tightened her arms around her legs. "You're _wrong_."

Quinn didn't comment any further and brought his eyes back to the ceiling. "Just watch," he told her a few moments later. "There are no such things as happy endings and sweet moments in our lives, because we chose these paths."

Rashel felt her eyes sting. Maybe what he was saying was true, but she didn't want to believe it. As she sat there facing the door, listening to their quiet breaths, Rashel noticed that she and Quinn may not be so different after all. They were both struggling to find peace in life, yet as much as they try, they couldn't _get_ it. She thought that solving and stopping crimes would help her get the tranquility she wanted. He thought that partying and owning materialistic aspects in life would help him get the serenity he dreamed of.

But they were nowhere near their goals. In fact, they were just fraught with everything they've been through.

"So I'm guessing you found my snack bars?" Quinn asked nonchalantly- as if they were_ friends_. And they weren't. Never had been, and never will be.

She didn't answer. Rashel opted for the silent treatment.

"You really want that punishment, huh?"

Again, no answer.

"You want me to sexually harass you or something?"

That managed to drag her eyes back to his. Nevertheless, it was a glare.

"Silent treatment then, I see," Quinn murmured. He pushed himself up from the bed, stretching his lean arms over his head. He stood up with a loud yawn. "I'm just gonna check on your friends. You can try-"

"Wait," her voice sounded raspy after mere minutes of not talking, "where are they?"

"No way I'm telling you," Quinn answered, "and I'm not taking you with me either. Anyway, you can take a shower- or do whatever the hell you do in the bathroom. There are some clothes in that closet," he said, pointing to the wooden sliding door next to the bathroom. "I don't know if it has any panties and bras there, so if you do choose hygiene over modesty, you might be going commando." He winked at her.

"I hate you," she muttered.

"So I've heard," he said over his shoulder while walking towards the door. He didn't bother to lock the door itself, and Rashel simply heard the familiar _click_ of the mysterious lock on the outside of the door.

She got up and headed to the closet.

* * *

><p>Quinn jogged down the staircase leading to the underground floor of the building (he didn't know what to call this place; definitely not a house but it <em>does<em> have the resemblance of it), yawning once again.

He walked down the narrow hallway, peering into the empty cellars that Hunter requested to be built a few years ago, and saw Rudi sleeping by the stool in front of the third metal door. He shoved at Rudi's shoulder and instantly woke up the bodyguard.

"Shouldn't be sleeping on a job," Quinn chastised, pulling the key from Rudi's pocket. He unlocked the door.

"I wasn't sleeping," Rudi snapped. He didn't attempt to take the keys away from Quinn.

"Sure you weren't," Quinn replied mockingly as he pushed the door open. "Fed them yet?"

"Yup."

Quinn entered the medium-sized cellar, seeing at least a dozen girls scattered inside the room. The room was bare; no beds, desks, chairs, _nothing_. Hunter is an absolute bastard. He swept his gaze around and looked for the two girls he saw yesterday; the cop, and that Daphne-girl.

There, huddled in a dark corner, were the Daphne-girl and the other cop. He strolled casually towards them and squatted beside them, squinting.

"You're Daphne and that other cop, yeah?" Quinn asked crisply.

"What's it to you, _John_?" the other cop snapped.

"Nothing really, Nala," he replied airily.

"It's _Nyala_," she corrected belligerently.

"Thank you for answering my question," he said with a flippant smirk. Nyala scowled. He stood up, sent Daphne a glance, and walked out of the cellar. That blonde girl, Daphne, looked terrified. Huh. Quinn didn't feel any compunction at all, which was nothing out of the ordinary- because business was business and nothing else.

At least . . . that's what he kept telling himself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey guys! First off, I'd like to thank Jen a.k.a. xXlamia vampressXx for helping me out with this chapter and for asking so many things that I haven't even thought about! Second of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS GUYS! I appreciate them a lot! :D And lastly, I am COMPLETELY SORRY for the late update (and for not thinking of a punishment for RxQ) and for having such a boring chapter! The next update would hopefully be up sooner and would hopefully be more interesting than this one!**

**Thank you guys so much! :)**

_Review?_


	13. Chapter 13

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

One week.

Rashel had been under this roof for _one week_. Granted, over the course of a week, she found that Quinn wasn't necessarily harmful (but not exactly accommodating either) unless provoked, and well . . . he's kind of- she prevented her thoughts from going further and simply nibbled at the snack bar Quinn left for her.

As of three days ago, Quinn stopped bringing cooked meals in the room and gave her snack bars instead. She was already getting sick from eating them but they're not, in any case, poisoned because they're in plastic wrappers. Her activities were settling into a routine; wake up, eat a snack bar from Quinn, think of an escape plan, take a shower (if need be), ignore Quinn in some measure, eat another snack bar, and then go to sleep.

She was useless- and she hated it so much. _So much_.

Rashel pushed her damp hair in a tight ponytail. Quinn was already gone before she woke up, which was unnerving for her seeing as she wanted to escape (and, unfortunately, the only time to do that was when Quinn's asleep), but at least it gave more time to herself. And time was what she needed to scheme a damned plan.

Seducing, Rashel thought while clasping her white bra behind her back, was not an easy thing to do. Quinn could easily see through her, like that first time she tried to seduce him; ugh, it was horrible. Not one thing she enjoyed. Angrily looking at her reflection on the bathroom's globular mirror, Rashel clawed across her flat stomach, noticing how skinny she became, how the bones of rib cage can be effortlessly distinguished when she took a deep breath. Rashel placed her white towel on top of the toilet's closed lid, and stared at her somewhat protruding hipbones just above the waistline of her white undergarment. She winced. She never looked this skinny, _ever_. She wondered if she'll die of malnourishment, but hurriedly shoved the thought away. She can't afford to think pessimistically- or worse, that she'd die in this hellhole.

Rashel ran her cold fingers through the ends of her ponytail, yanking the tangles away with a sigh of aggravation. Was her mother watching her daughter struggle here? Was Rashel even _struggling_? It didn't feel like it, and Rashel hated herself more for it. Tonight, she thought. She'll leave tonight. As much as she wanted to rescue Daphne and Nyala and the other girls, she couldn't. This was a suicide mission, a mission that wouldn't be safe for either one of them, because it involved manning up with no weapons and leaving as quick and as silent as possible with the heavy chances of running into a guard that's completely armed, and having to take them down without getting hurt.

"Hell," Rashel muttered, unclenching her fists while she leaned over the sink, her heart beating erratically in her almost-bare chest. Even in her _mind_ it sounded crazy. But what else has she got to lose? She'd rather fight for her freedom than be raped here by Quinn (Rashel couldn't ignore the stares she received) or rot in his room without trying something crazy at least _once_. Although, Rashel thought while splashing cool water on her face, what she did the night of her kidnapping was crazy enough to send her here- in this horrid place. Too engrossed in her abysmal escape-plan, Rashel hadn't notice the bedroom's door slam against the wall, the frantic steps going around the perimeter of the room, until she heard and _felt_ the bathroom door being roughly rammed aside.

In an instant, the cop pivoted on her heel to face her intruder, only to see her _kidnapper_ looking at her in genuine astonishment. Quinn, with his black eyebrows disappearing under the mussed hair covering his forehead and his lips parted a little, blinked slowly, his dark eyes raking up her all but nude body until it rested on her face. He muttered something and averted his eyes quickly. Rashel wanted to scream and shout at him, but before she had a chance to do so, Quinn slammed the door closed and Rashel pushed the lock in so that he wouldn't dare go back inside. Or shove the door open.

Her heart, surprisingly, was singing with different moods; shock, anger, _delight_- for fuck's sake, she didn't even know why she was _delighted_ to have his eyes raking up her body like that. Rashel merely started mumbling to herself, aspiring to squash the annoying voices in her head. Especially the delighted one.

"Seduction. That was part of my plan," she mumbled to herself, avoiding her reflection as she slipped on a shirt (thank God for the girl who shared this room with him- she left enough clothes and undergarments for her to use). But the thing was, _that_ wasn't part of her plan. The part where she's simply in her underwear and Quinn saw her. "It's fine," Rashel forced through clenched teeth. It's not like he's the first person who had ever seen her in that state- but then, she backpedaled. No one, not even _Daphne_, saw her in a bra and panty. No one saw past her face, neck, arms, and legs. It was mind-boggling to have a _criminal_ see her in a state that no one else had. And of all the people, _John Quinn_ was the one to see her like that. It's always him, with her recent "of all the people" musings. Always, always John Quinn.

"Stop," Rashel whispered, curling her fingers around her small wrist and digging her fingers in her skin, "it. _Stop_ it." She slipped in the gray sweatpants she borrowed, contemplating if she should wear her uniform after it dries later, and attempted to focus on safe topics- which included her getaway plan that caused her heart to pound oh-so-intermittently.

Next thing she knew, tears were gathering around her eyes because everything was just so _frustrating_. She wanted to give up, hell, she just wanted to give in to whatever Quinn planned for her- though she knew her mother wouldn't want that. Hunter was in here somewhere, and her mother was a victim of his selfishness. Rashel took a shaky breath, feeling her blood burn with an unknown need. This was the feeling of desperation, the feeling of helplessness seeping in her bones alas, and-

If Rashel didn't do anything right now, she guaranteed herself that she _will go insane_. "I need- hell, I need _something_," she grumbled, silently opening drawers in the bathroom. Anxiously searching for some kind of leeway, Rashel nearly punched the mirror when she realized that the only distraction she could possibly have right at this moment was Quinn. Unless he showed himself out of the room. That was, however, an unlikely thought.

"Quinn," Rashel called, drawing the door ajar. She paused, halting in her step as she stared at Quinn, who was lying on his bed with his arms behind his head, his eyes focused on the ceiling. She didn't know what to tell him.

"What, we're on chatty terms now?" Quinn asked amusedly. He lifted an eyebrow, eyes momentarily scanning her outfit. His jaw tensed, but he didn't say anything nor do anything else. No mention of what happened earlier either.

"I . . ." Rashel racked her brain, strolling casually on the bed opposite of his. "Why are you here early?" From what she collected over the days, he typically comes home around after dinner time. And, from what her appetite's telling her, it wasn't dinner time yet.

"I come and go as I please," he said airily. He gave her a look of chary, but nevertheless said nothing. Though his eyes flickered with something like fire behind a thick inch of chilly ice.

Rashel resumed prying her brain; she ended up with nothing. She couldn't think! Maybe it was the way Quinn focused on _her_ instead of the ceiling- or maybe her mind, after abusing her worn-out brain in the bathroom two minutes ago, now hummed in a quiet tune. Rashel bit the inside of her cheek. Then her blank thoughts finally made a sensible question. "What am I supposed to do here?" Her voice, even to her ears, sounded soft and gentle; not the sharp-edged tone she normally uses.

Quinn shifted, lying on his side with his elbow propped up against the pillow and the side of his head resting on his palm. Rashel loosely crossed her arms and sat down on her bed, her eyes downcast. His eyes felt like a ton of black rocks weighing her down on her spot. "Would you like to hear a story?" he asked.

He wasn't even going to answer her question! That bastard. That fucking bastard, Rashel thought halfheartedly. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the anger fueling the rest of her mixed up emotions.

"Yes?"

"Why don't you answer my question?" Rashel asked, moving her gaze to level his.

"I'll take that as a yes," Quinn quipped good-humoredly. But Rashel didn't see anything funny in this situation. None at all. So she stayed silent as Quinn started his story.

"There was a boy in the streets of- let's say . . . _London_," he started, his dark eyes staring distantly on the white sheets of her bed. "He ran away from the orphanage he was sent to, after finding out that no one in his family wanted to take care of his dead father's son. The orphanage didn't try to search for him either. That's how unwanted he is." Rashel noticed that he said _is_ rather than _was_.

"He was alone, wandering and wandering. He thought of running in front of the train tracks and waiting for the train to drag him under its strong wheels, but then he decided that his _family_," he said the word as if it disgusts him, "would welcome him when he becomes successful. God, he was so naïve. And so wrong." Quinn slumped back on his bed, his arm folded behind his head.

"He was frowned upon by many people, simply because he was from the streets. They didn't know that he was a son of a good man; they didn't know that the kid was _struggling_ to live, to survive." Struggling, Rashel echoed in her head. Struggling- she wasn't struggling, was she?

"How did he get by?" Rashel asked quietly. For a moment, he didn't reply, and Rashel thought that he was going to ignore her question like last time. But he didn't.

"That kid . . . did lots of odd jobs. Anything to get money and to survive. _Anything_," Quinn emphasized gravely. Her skin crawled as she imagined what he meant by "anything" and eventually made herself lie on her bed, her arms still crossed around her chest.

"For two months, he managed to take care of himself, but the longing to belong never left. He didn't belong to the streets, he didn't belong to the people he worked for, he didn't belong _anywhere_. And he thought of the train tracks again." Quinn guffawed without any humor. "That kid should've killed himself then; he was so _fucking_ naïve." He placed his other arm across his plane stomach. "And then, a guy in a business suit came, looking for a son."

Hunter, Rashel instantly mused. She gazed at Quinn, her eyes involuntarily softening while she watched him lie on his bed, telling a story- _his_ story. Her heart wanted to reach out to him, but she couldn't and wouldn't and won't. _He's a criminal you idiot!_ Her mind was screaming at her, drilling the words _John Quinn is a CRIMINAL_ in her brain. Rashel willed herself to hate him again. And she did, with a little bit of difficulty.

"Anyway, the kid thought he was some type of guy to look up to," Quinn hastily remarked, glaring at the ceiling. "So he bought the shit that the old man said and came back with him to America." He snorted. "The kid thought he had a good life afterwards: food in his stomach, a safe and nice place to live in, maids and servants, things he wanted, education. And then, the old man began to show his true and nasty colors."

Rashel continued to listen, even though she didn't want to learn anything more. She was afraid that if she understood where he was coming from that . . . that she won't be able to . . . Rashel bit her tongue, as if that would stop her thoughts. _Please_, just stop, she thought to herself.

"He began with simple tasks, such as giving the kid weird codes to use on an ATM machine that he needed to transfer to the old man's account," Quinn said absently. "The kid didn't know what he was doing, until the deceitful man started handing out more dangerous and complex things to do. The kid caught on after a few more nefarious doings," Quinn shifted into another position, "and then the old man dropped the bomb. He told the kid his plans, told him about the money, the women, and he said that the kid is his _heir_."

The _is_ and _was_ issue came up again.

"He didn't want his biological daughters to be involved, and the kid . . . the kid thought of his little step-sister when the old man said that. And the kid wanted to protect his little step-sister from the harm, because that little sister of his was the one who genuinely welcomed him into the family. And so he continued on with the old man's tasks. Hell, if he only knew that his little-" Quinn swallowed dryly, and Rashel heard it. He didn't finish the sentence. "The kid became more independent with the . . . say, businesses the old man was running. And soon, the old man felt secure that his businesses were going to be alright once he passes away."

The crook on the bed rubbed his eyes exhaustedly. "But the kid hates the old man a lot. On a typical basis, the kid would wish he never got on that stupid plane to America, that he never met the old guy and his daughters, that he never even _lived_. But he doesn't do anything about it. Because he's going to die one day anyway. Maybe," Quinn added with a little smirk, "the kid would find some train tracks to lie down on." He didn't say anything else after that, and for a couple of moments, Rashel just waited. And waited.

No words could form on her lips. Rashel wondered if what he told her was real, but just pushed her thoughts away. "What happened to him?" she asked. "The kid, I mean?"

Quinn didn't answer right away. But his answer stunned her. "I don't know what happened to him," he said nonchalantly, but it was obvious that he felt exposed. He faced away from her, his lean and muscled back turned against her. "Go to sleep. And that's an order," Quinn commanded in a gruff voice.

Rashel turned on her side, facing away from his back without a word. Even though she felt sorry for the young John Quinn, Rashel made a point to _not_ feel sorry for the current John Quinn. So she was going to escape tonight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I know he's not from Europe, but come on now guys, let's pretend he _is_ European since there were British colonies back in the 1600s, thus, Quinn is English. Anyway, I suck at describing things because when I do, I put them all in one sentence. Constructive criticism is welcome! I proof-read my stories myself, so sorry if there are errors! If you have any questions, please put them in a review or PM me so I can be of service. :) I've got the next chapter in my head, so hopefully it won't be a long wait for the update (I rhymed!). Thank you so much guys! :) And thanks Jen for always being the Curious One! ;) Hope you guys enjoyed it!


	14. Chapter 14

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

When Quinn entered the room, he was more than flabbergasted to see- or not see, in this case- an empty room. Which meant a room without the cop. He strolled around the room, examining any damages or signs of escape. He knew that the cop wasn't _that_ stupid. If she went out the windows, the guards would immediately shoot her down. And he didn't hear any shooting either. He gritted his teeth; that stupid _idiot_. Quinn felt his pulse speed up when he found no evidence of escape. She couldn't have left the room because the lock was on the door, and no one else besides himself has access through it.

If he hadn't known better, Quinn would've thought that he _worried_ for the stupid, idiotic cop. But he _did_ know better and just shrugged off the feeling as possessiveness- which wasn't an exact lie.

Quinn scowled, hearing something in the bathroom. Marching towards the bathroom door in wide strides, he slammed the door open just in time to see the cop- in her _underwear_- pivot on her heel. He only caught a glimpse of her nicely-shaped butt when his eyes settled on the front of her long legs. Slowly, oh-so-damned-slowly, Quinn forced his eyes up her curvy body until they remained on her face. He muttered something under his breath, not even knowing if it was literate, and shifted his eyes on the sink just below the mirror. Now if he simply raised his eyes an inch, he could see the top of her butt- so Quinn instantly jammed the door closed behind him, hearing the undeniably loud _click_ of the lock from the bathroom.

He took a deep breath, leaning on the door with his heart hammering inside his chest. It wasn't the first time he saw a girl in those articles of clothing; but hell, he never saw a girl as, and dare he say- or think- it, as . . . _pure_ and yet _sexy_ like that cop in his damned bathroom. He pushed his hair away from his eyes, making his way towards his bed and lying down with his arms behind his head.

That was a good distraction, he thought faintly while staring up at the white ceiling. Indeed, it was a good distraction from the meeting Hunter called them up for; a meeting, despite the strategies they came up with, that was fruitless. As usual, Quinn thought of ways to maneuver the cops away from their warehouses (which included lots and lots of framing), but he amended his plans by pointing out its flaws- and Hunter did _not_ like it.

"What's wrong with your head nowadays, son?" Hunter sneered at him two hours ago.

Quinn simply shrugged, biting off the retort on the tip of his tongue. He continued staring at Hunter in the eye, not backing down even though the old man dipped his eyebrows forward in a menacing look. Quinn placed his elbows on the oval-shaped table, his fingers clasped together as he put his chin on them.

Hunter glared at him, the urge of throwing him away in the sea tempting his mind, but he shoved it away. "Any more suggestions as to how-" He stopped when Quinn pushed himself away from the table, heading to the door with his hands in his pockets. "Where the do you think you're going, young man?"

Quinn snorted, wrapping his hand around the cool doorknob and jerking it open. "Away, old man."

"If you walk away right now," Hunter warned.

"What, you'll _un_-heir me? Go ahead, do it," Quinn said. "Not like it hasn't happened before." He didn't know what kind of obscenities Hunter spluttered because he already slammed the door behind him, but he was damn glad to have caused such a reaction from the almighty Hunter Redfern. Fucking asshole.

Rashel flittered in his mind and the real thing appeared merely a few feet in front of the bathroom simultaneously. She appeared to be distressed, but then she always did, and Quinn didn't bother talking to her since she typically ignores him anyway. So you could imagine his surprise when Rashel called his name. There was something in her voice that he couldn't quite put his finger on, though it was something he was used to hearing in his _own_ voice before Hunter gained a hold of him. And maybe that undetectable hitch in her words triggered him to tell her a story. A story that was his _past_. Quinn smirked to himself, turning on the bed to watch the back of the cop. She said she didn't care about his past because she didn't need it. Well, Rashel Jordan didn't show any ciphers of resistance in listening when he started.

That happened an hour ago, before he ordered the cop to go to sleep. And now, he was gazing at her back like some forlorn guy; perhaps he is. Quinn sighed, closing his eyes. Really, sometimes he wished that he met Rashel in a different life. So that he didn't have to be a criminal, and she . . . a cop.

* * *

><p>Rashel carefully pulled her uniform on, buttoning it up as fast as she possibly can. It was probably around midnight when she woke up, and she was more than relieved to see Quinn sleeping on the other bed. She knotted the laces on her shoes, checking her pockets for something- <em>anything<em>- that could be a weapon. But there was nothing. So she only had to rely on her arms and legs when she leaves this room.

The thought made her blanch. Her stomach twisted in a way people get when they enter an unknown field or zone, not knowing what the _hell_ was going to happen. She fixed her hair for the umpteenth time, knowing that she'll have to use her ears and eyes to move around this damned building. But she didn't know her way around here; the only way she's _certain_ would lead her out was the way Quinn used to get to this room. And she was also sure that that was the main entryway of this building.

Damn it all to hell. She'll take her chance. One more day of being in here would surely kill her.

Rashel shortly checked Quinn's closet, just to see if he had any weapons lying around- and . . . he did. They were in the darkest corner of his closet, in an iron safe. So they weren't lying around per se, but she was about confident that there were weapons in here. She could feel the tingling in her bones. Good thing she knew how to open safes- bad thing was, Rashel turned the safe to the side and found a security-code keypad attached, she didn't know how the _hell_ she'll unearth this damned thing.

Why couldn't he get something low-tech for once?

She pushed the safe back in the corner, hearing shifting and mumbling from the bed. Rashel glanced over her shoulder, her heart picking up speed when Quinn twisted on the bed, still mumbling. She couldn't hear what he was saying but-

Rashel felt her cheeks warm up. She tore her eyes away from the moaning Quinn (_I can't believe he's moaning_) and padded towards the door. Unlocking it and anxiously throwing a glance over her shoulder, Rashel gently pulled at the door. His soft sighs and movements were muffled once she locked the door behind her and closed it.

_Aha_! Her observations _were_ right! Quinn didn't put the lock. Did that mean he trusted her-?

Nah, Rashel thought while looking around the dimly-lit hallway, he's just stupid. Now, for the getaway.

Making sure that the coast was clear, Rashel walked briskly and silently down the hallway she recalled she and Quinn used. Her steps were light and quick, not disturbing the quietness of the hallway. And then she reached the end. There was only one turn, and that was to the right. She bit the inside of her cheek, her heart pounding immensely fast in her chest. She pressed her back against the wall, gradually inching her face around the corner to see if there were people.

None.

Rashel thought that this was too good to be true, but she didn't complain. After all the goatshit she's been through, the least thing she deserved was an escape out. But bad things were imminent.

The first bad thing that happened was when Rashel stepped into the empty hallway, _Ivan_ stepped into the same vacant hallway- making it _not_ bare. The second bad thing that happened was when Ivan pulled out his gun from his holster and pointed it at Rashel. The third bad thing that happened was when Rashel stood still and let Ivan cross the distance separating them.

And hell, there were more things that occurred.

"Isn't it surprising that you happen to be out on _my_ watch?" Ivan asked with a leer on his face. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, compressing the side of her body to his. She wanted to spit at him, but she held herself back. The gun on her shoulder blade was enough to keep impudent remarks in her mouth.

"Forsooth," Rashel muttered, her skin producing goosebumps.

"Ah," Ivan sighed, his lips just above the shell of her ear, "I guess I still give you the goosebumps, huh _princess_?" he growled, crushing her to his side.

Rashel didn't say anything. If she moved now, the bullet would enter through her shoulder blade and kill her instantly. If not kill, then injure her. Fatally.

"I won't shoot you," he said, his other hand cupping her cheek and tilting her face to meet his. His blue eyes stared hungrily at hers, and she stared at him with an abhorrent glint in her green eyes. "But you're coming with me. Or," Ivan paused, raising his eyebrow quizzically, "would you rather have me shoot you and _then_ I'll have my way with you?"

Rashel swallowed, the feeling in her stomach tightening while she hoped and _prayed_ to get the gun away from her clavicle. "I'll come," she whispered regretfully, watching the caustic smile Ivan sent her. He pressed a kiss on the side of her mouth, and she pushed down the need to knee him in the gut. "Good girl," he murmured, pressing another kiss on the other side of her mouth. But he didn't put the gun down. Her stomach dropped. She needed that gun down!

With cold, cold hands, Rashel cupped his face and pulled him down, kissing him- _forcing_ herself to kiss him in order to get him to put the damned gun down. Hell, Rashel thought while licking his lower lip, it's like kissing a . . . a pig. Or a lizard. Utterly repulsing.

Ivan slipped his other hand around her waist, forcing his hips against hers and moaning against her soft mouth. Come _on_, Rashel thought frantically, put the gun down! At her irritation, Rashel accidentally bit down on Ivan's lip and he abruptly pulled away. She thought her cover was blown until he pressed his lips on hers again.

"I didn't know you like to _bite_, cop," Ivan muttered, biting _her_ lower lip as she pulled away and lightly hit her head against the butt of the gun. He glared at the gun, muttering something and then putting the gun down-

Rashel took this chance to grab his arm and twist the gun out of his grasp, jerking a quick punch-kick against his solar plexus and running as fast as she can towards the entrance. Her legs were pushing her down the hallway and she was met with a bullet almost hitting the heel of her shoe. She glimpsed over her back and saw Ivan trailing behind her with a smaller gun. She aimed the gun at him and missed, only hitting his fingers where he grunted and kept shooting at her. She needed to shoot him now but-

She ran into a tall, buff man. The man from the club. She stepped back, bumping into Ivan's heavily-breathing body, gun poised at her temple.

"You're a bitch, you know," Ivan breathed in her ear, putting her in a choke hold. The buff guy in front of them, looked at Rashel, then at Ivan.

"You can't shoot her." He was scratching at the back of his head, like he didn't care if he did.

Ivan smiled, the blood dripping from his fingers. He pressed a kiss on the side of her face, bunching her ponytail in his other hand. "Watch me."

* * *

><p><em>Quinn sat up, distressed, on his unkempt bed. His hair was ruffled, his shirt was pushed up above his stomach, and-<em>

_Rashel wasn't here. He didn't know why, but it scared him more than it annoyed him. Quinn was already getting out of his bed when Rashel burst in the room, still in the clothes that she borrowed from Dove. She walked over to him, breathless, and sat on _his_ bed. It baffled him that she opted on sitting on his bed rather than hers, but he didn't complain. Instead, he lightly pushed at her shoulder, and she responded by raising her head and smiling at him. _Smiling_ at him._

_John Quinn didn't know what the hell was happening._

_She pushed herself up, apologizing (_For what though?_), and then she cupped his face and kissed him. On the mouth. Disoriented and surprised, Quinn leaned back on his headboard with his hands cupping her cheek and the back of her nape. He pulled her on top of him, pausing to take a deep breath, and rubbing his thumb on her cheek._

_Next thing he knew, they were in the bathroom, and she was in her undergarments again. His fingers were curled around her waist, tracing the top edge of her white panty while kissing down her jaw, down her neck, her shoulder. He heard her sighs, her moans, felt the pressure of her fingers digging in his hair while he pressed his lips on hers._

_And then, he asked, "Where were you?"_

_She didn't answer. Rashel only slipped her hands around his back, down his jeans, until they reached either sides of his hips and pulled it against hers. Quinn sucked in a breath and felt her ample chest press on his hard one. He swallowed dryly while Rashel sent light kisses down his jaw, the corners of his mouth, his neck . . . and then he felt her hands slide under his shirt, on his back, raking his skin with her fingers and whispering his name. A tiny moan slipped._

"_John," she whispered, _biting_ the skin on his neck. He placed his face on her shoulder, stifling another strangled moan. She sighed when Quinn suckled on her shoulder, taking his time while Rashel got impatient._

"_Just take it off," she breathed, slipping the straps of her bra down her arms. "If you don't do it," Rashel warned, already placing her fingers over her clasp, "I will."_

_Quinn couldn't help but chuckle at the impatience of the beautiful female in front of him. He placed his hands over hers, parting her lips with his. "_I'll _take it off." His fingers fumbled with the straps, her hands going around to cup the back of his head and neck while he unclasped the bra. She arched her chest to his when he ran his fingers lightly down her spine. She shivered, his warm hands settling on the small of her back while her hands slid down the front of his body and tugged at his shirt._

_He didn't hesitate to take it off, throwing it on the floor. Using his tensed hips, he pushed her firmer against the sink, his lips making their way down her throat while he trapped her between him and the chilly sink. Her hands explored the planes of his chest, down his hard stomach, until her fingers hooked themselves on his jeans, lightly tugging at them._

"_Rashel," he breathed, kissing her already-swollen lips._

"_John, just-"_

Quinn snapped his eyes open, cursing whatever woke him up from his dream. His hips were throbbing with discomfort under his jeans (he hadn't bothered to change yet), and his eyes were dazed and unfocused as he tried to get back to reality. The cop . . . the cop, in his dream, oh _God_ help him.

He couldn't even form a sentence, and he couldn't even _look_ at the cop on the other bed- wait, she's not even on the bed- Quinn glanced at the bed, not made, yet the clothes she was wearing earlier was on top of the bed. And the bathroom door . . . there were no lights slipping under the gap.

The cop wasn't in the room. He felt more scared than annoyed; like how he felt in his dream.

"Fucking hell, you _idiot_," Quinn muttered, jumping out of his bed and all but running towards his safe. He punched in the four-numbered code and grabbed his shotgun, slamming the safe shut and running out of the door. He stopped and stayed for a moment.

Rashel could've either turned left or right, depending on how good her memory was. And since it was Rashel Jordan he was talking about, he decided to go down the hallway, instead of up. Quinn couldn't _believe_ that shit! Didn't she know how _dangerous_ it was to go around in this damned building? Especially when those guards were criminals _and_ were armed? That fucking _idiot_.

The drowsiness and aftereffects of his sleep and dream were rapidly making their way out of his system as he continued to go down the hallway.

_Bang!_ Two more followed. And lots of running foot-steps.

"Hell," Quinn muttered, forcing his legs to move faster and around the corner where he saw Rashel stumble back from Dane, and onto Ivan. Rashel's and Ivan's backs were turned, but Dane was facing the hallway he was in. Dane said something to Ivan, and Ivan only pressed the gun to Rashel's head. His heart was dropped in his digestive system. Ivan was putting pressure on the trigger.

"Drop the gun," Quinn yelled, his chest heaving up and down as he placed _his_ gun on the back of Ivan's head. "Or you're dead."

Immediately, Ivan put his gun down, a cackle making its way out of his lips. "I was just joking!" He turned around, icy blue eyes implying otherwise, Rashel still in a chokehold (it was loose, however) and sweat pooling around her hairline. He sent Quinn a hard stare. "Take better care of your bitch, John."

"I will," Quinn snapped, earning a smile from Ivan. "When you start learning how to fight one," he added, only to have Rashel shoved towards him. Quinn roughly grabbed Rashel's elbow, noticing Ivan's bloodied fingers. He hid a smile, dragging Rashel back up the hallway.

"Good night Ivan, Dane," Quinn called over his shoulder. "Oh and Ivan? Have fun bandaging your hand."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ah, okay. I hope ya'll like that. C: I didn't like writing the Ivan/Rashel scene, so I couldn't go on with the original plan…so yeah. Hope you all enjoyed it! Thoughts on the dream? **


	15. Chapter 15

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

"You're housing a cop," Hunter stated once Quinn sat on the chair across from his the next day. His son leaned back on the chair, making himself comfortable.

"And?" he asked nonchalantly. So what if he had a cop in his room? It's not technically _him_ who's "housing" a cop. And it's not like they're only "housing" one female. "Housing" was such a broad term, and Quinn pointed it out to Hunter.

"Don't get smart with me _boy_," growled Hunter, a permanent scowl on his face. Quinn shoved the urge to laugh at his face away. That wouldn't be good, especially now that he knew that Quinn was personally keeping a cop. "I heard about what happened last night." When Quinn didn't respond, Hunter carried on. "So you kidnapped the famous Rashel Jordan, didn't you? And you almost let her get away if not for Ivan."

Don't tell me, Quinn groaned inwardly. He always knew that Hunter favored Ivan for his cold and maniac personality over Quinn's nonchalant behavior, but Hunter couldn't make Ivan his heir because he didn't have _brains_—and, well, if he had some, he wouldn't have been under both Quinn and Hunter in the first place. Hunter placed his elbows on the mahogany desk in between them, leaning closer to his son as if he was going to inspect him.

"I want to get a good look at her," stated Hunter, the bitter smile appeared on his face just as the Quinn's insides froze. "To see her, privately."

He was aware of how still he had become, how his heart pulsed rather quickly in his ribcage, and how his throat moved as he gulped—no, not gulped, _swallowed_. John Quinn did not _gulp_, he reminded himself as he eased himself into his casual persona. "When would you like that?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"Tonight. I've got other matters to attend to," remarked Hunter amusedly, watching his son lock his jaw. "I'll send Ivan to retrieve her, so you can sleep soundly."

Quinn's mind was already reeling; already making up plans. He smiled at Hunter, the old man's grin wavering, and pushed himself up from the chair. "You've got yourself a deal. I wouldn't mind going out to fetch some other ladies this evening." Hunter must've been reassured because his grin widened, eyes looking at his son rather fondly—well, as fond as Hunter could ever be.

"That's a perfect idea, son. That's a very perfect idea."

* * *

><p>"I'm busting you out."<p>

Rashel was mind-boggled. First, he kidnapped her, then he literally scolded her last night about her stupidity, and now he wanted to _bust her out_? More than ever before, she was convinced that Quinn was crazy. She couldn't find any words to say (this is the second time he had me speechless, Rashel thought), but her head was spinning with so much questions. Why would he want to do this? What changed his mind? Were they finally going to give up? Did something happen? She couldn't understand _anything_. She couldn't understand _him_.

When Rashel reclaimed her composure, Quinn was already heading over to his closet and pulling out his safe, punching in a short yet baffling code that seemed to puzzle Rashel all over again. She tried not to dwell on it.

"Why?" She sounded weak, confused, and very pathetic—so Rashel cleared her throat, gritting her teeth together, and pushed off the covers from her legs. He had strolled back in the room about five minutes after she woke up. It was only, _probably_, 10AM.

"Don't ask unnecessary questions," Quinn snapped, pulling out some papers and shoving them in his pockets.

"That wasn't _unnecessary_ Quinn." Her voice was pitched high; disbelief and incredulous. "Why are you doing this? Why are you busting me out?"

"I thought you wanted to escape," glowered Quinn, sending her a glare over his shoulder. He was avoiding the questions, and Rashel didn't want to have it.

"I do but—"

"Then it's settled."

"_John_," Rashel snapped, not knowing how she could gain his undivided attention. She was annoyed, aggravated, and all the a-words that mean the same thing, and Quinn wasn't even _looking_ at her. "What _happened_?" She couldn't trust him; but . . . Rashel knew that, deep inside, she had somehow placed some of her trust in him. That was why she let him pull her back in the room last night (alright, that, and because there were guns all around her and she was weaponless), that was why she ate the food he gave her, that was why . . . that was why she could sleep at night, knowing he wouldn't do anything to her. Even as the realization hit her, Rashel still couldn't admit that she trusted him.

While she was mulling over her thoughts, Quinn had paused pulling objects out of his safe, his legs pressed against his chest as he crouched tightly on the floor, eyes scowling into the safe. "I'll tell you later when we think of a plan."

"I'm not going to think of a plan if you don't tell me what the _hell_ is going on."

"Fine. I don't need your help to bust you out anyway," retorted Quinn, and resumed examining objects in his safe. Rashel slid off the bed, considered beating up Quinn, but then thought against it and merely stood beside his stooped form with her hands on her hips. She was too angry to be scared; too angry to acknowledge that he was drawing different weapons from the iron-made container.

Her teeth kept grinding together as she looked daggers at Quinn, who was set on ignoring her presence for the time being.

"_Why_?" she repeated, fierce and furious.

"Why _what_?" Quinn asked. It seemed like he was back to his normal self; the one who got amused at everything. But she was wrong.

"Why are you busting me out? Why are you doing this? Why—"

He jerked his head so abruptly to meet her gaze that she stopped talking. "You want to know _why_? Well, here's why. Something's going to happen to you tonight and I can't do anything about it."

"Why would _you_ care anyway? I'm not your responsibility," she said, pissed and perplexed and—_damn it all_. She was a mess; her emotions were flying everywhere, and she didn't like not having control over them.

"I told you the reason why I'm busting you out, so go and start thinking of the escape—"

"Why do _you care_?" Rashel cut in crossly. Her chest was rising up and down quickly, as if she couldn't breathe. But the weight of his eyes on her, and the way his face was pinched, made her feel winded. "I want to know why you're doing this Quinn. This isn't normal!" she all but yelled, and Rashel lowered her voice. "This isn't _normal_ Quinn. Why are you suddenly telling me that we're escaping and—" She gasped when Quinn grabbed her wrist and pulled her down next to him. Rashel painfully hit her butt, but she didn't recognize the pain one bit because Quinn was leaning so close that she could feel his breath lightly hitting her lips.

"Why do I _care_?" Quinn hissed, eyebrows creased. "God damn it, because I _do_. I fucking _care_ about your little ass, and I don't want Hunter to try and kill you." His throat moved as he swallowed. "God _damn_ it, I care. And for fuck's sake, none of this is normal. I shouldn't even _feel_ this way. Do you know how fucked up this is? _Do you know how much I _hate_ that I care about you?_" Quinn pressed his forehead against hers—Rashel couldn't breathe. She really couldn't breathe anymore. She couldn't move either; she was frozen under his words, against his body that was slowly encasing her in a tight embrace.

"Do you know that I would wish that we met in a different life? That we met under completely different circumstances? That I could have a _family_ with you?" His nose was brushing against hers now, and he wasn't smiling as he said this. Instead, he had a grimace on his face. "But it's not possible; you and I both know that, and we're completely different from one another. We can't _be_. I don't even know why the hell I fell in love with you—" he stopped.

Rashel couldn't do anything. She was helpless, yet again, and she wanted to do so many things to him—but she couldn't _do anything_.

"I fell in love with you," Quinn repeated, almost dazedly. "Fuck it all to hell, _I fell in love with you_." He was quiet, just holding her in his arms, before he slid away from her, back in front of his safe. Rashel felt cold all over. "Now will you escape?" His voice was quiet, hoarse, and hollow.

"Is it true?" she whispered, just as dully. "Everything you said—are they true?"

"Do you think I'll _lie_ about those things?" Quinn snapped, pushing some of the weapons aside. "_Think_, Rashel. I wanted to keep you alive. I wanted to keep you where I can see you so no harm goes your way. I—"

"You shouldn't have kidnapped me then," she interrupted, still feeling empty and the stupor from his confession. "You shouldn't have _kidnapped_ me in the first place," Rashel echoed, firmer.

He looked at her, appearing dreary. Quinn brushed his hair from his forehead. "I shouldn't have; you're right." But I was probably in the process of falling in love with you then, thought Quinn lifelessly. "We never should've met."

"We never should've met," Rashel heard herself say, duplicating his words. She didn't know what caused her heart to clench achingly in her chest, or what caused her boiling blood to instantly deflate, but she did know one thing.

She was escaping tonight. With John Quinn.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope the confession wasn't too hurried! And I'm sorry if this chapter was short! But maybe the next chapter would be longer, so yeah. Thank you so much guys for the reviews and for everything! :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**The Cop and the Criminal**

**.**

"Hurry up." Quinn was checking his watch again and again, impatiently drumming his fingers inside his pocket. They were armed, not fully, but it was enough to make them deadly. At least, Quinn liked to think so. Rashel, who was pushing her gun in her holster, paid him no attention and simply checked over her uniform for the third time.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Rashel asked him. Despite her cool attitude, she couldn't help but feel nervous. _Very_ nervous. After all, they were going to escape from Hunter's clutches—which was unheard of.

"Frankly, no." Quinn ran a hand through his hair. Was he nervous too? Rashel wondered and decided that he probably was, what with the way he kept on running his fingers through his messy hair. "But let's take a go at it anyway."

Rashel tightened her ponytail, trying not to show how anxious she was, and placed her curled fists on her hips. Her hands were getting clammy and her heart was beating rather fast. "Do you have everything?"

Quinn pulled out a paper from his pocket, read it once, checked the tiny backpack full of extra ammos, handy weapons and money, and nodded. Rashel dug her fingernails in her palms. This was probably the last night she would live. And she couldn't decipher what she was feeling—_if_ she was feeling something at all. Quinn was already heading out of the door when Rashel realized something.

"Wait a minute," Rashel remarked, jerking Quinn backwards by pulling the back of his shirt. "What about the car?"

"The car—?"

"Yeah. For _transportation_." She felt herself furrowing her eyebrows as she focused her green eyes on him. He seemed amused, and so Rashel scowled. "Don't tell me that we're going to run." Or worse, she thought bitterly in her head, you _lied_ to me. She didn't understand why, but Quinn lying to her about everything he said (including his confession) somewhat hurt her. At the notion, her scowl deepened.

Quinn rolled his eyes, a corner of his lips quirking up into a smirk. "No, you idiot." He moved forward and wrapped his hand around the cool doorknob, looking so nonchalant. It was as if he was merely stepping outside to take a stroll. "We're taking one of Hunter's cars."

"But he'll notice right away," argued Rashel.

"Not if we trade it with another car."

"And where will we get the other car?" Rashel asked, loosening her grip from the back of his shirt. He was only wearing a shirt and stretchy jeans (or so it seemed) and a pair of running shoes.

When Quinn shrugged, Rashel glared daggers at him. He smiled lopsidedly. "We'll just have to wing it. It's part of the fun."

"This is _life and death_, Quinn."

"And?"

"We could _die_," she emphasized, feeling angrier by the second.

"We'd die someday anyway. What's the point?" Quinn sighed, running his other hand through his hair. "Now come on. You want to get out, right?"

She didn't respond, because she _did_ want to escape. Quinn pulled a gun out of the bag before closing it and slinging it behind his back. "You ready?"

Rashel nodded, and just as he was about to turn the knob, she pulled him back again.

"God damn it, what _now_?" Quinn hissed, frowning at her. His eyebrows were dipped forward in annoyance, and his jaw was set.

"We're going to escape with Nyala and Daphne, right?" she asked. How come she didn't think of that earlier? Rashel felt ashamed for thinking of her own safety before the others, felt ashamed for allowing Quinn's confession get into her head and push away the other significant things she needed to do. Rashel raised her chin to meet his steady gaze.

"Were you listening to me earlier?" he asked her. "I said I'm busting _you_ out. Not Nyala, not Daphne, but _you_."

Rashel opened her mouth, but found that no words were coming out. She simply shook her head, unsteadily stepping back. No, no, _no_. This couldn't be happening. She was a _cop_. She was supposed to enforce laws and save people and fight for justice. Everything she was doing now went against her duties. This was wrong.

"I can't leave them."

Quinn roughly grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. "Listen to me and listen to me well." His eyes were piercing fiercely through hers. "You can't save everyone, no matter how hard you try. Do you understand?"

Rashel shook him off, gritting her teeth. He can't tell her who she can and _cannot_ save. "No—I can't leave them, I just—"

"I'm not having this argument with you," he cut in rudely, grabbing her wrist again. "We're escaping now. We've wasted so much time—"

"But what about them? Don't you care about them?" Rashel asked, futilely attempting to draw her arm back.

"No, I don't. I only care about your safety. Now come _on_."

"But—"

"Just _shut up_, will you? We'll rescue them once we have you out of this place." It sounded earnest, even to his ears, and thankfully, it made Rashel's resistance weak.

This is going to sound stupid, Rashel mused but hesitantly asked, "You promise?"

He didn't reply for a second, but Quinn tipped his head once. "Sure." And then, he was pulling the door open.

Instantly, he let go of her hand and began walking to the opposite direction they took last night. Rashel quickly trailed behind him, her hand poised over her gun, ready to attack. Carefully, they made their way through the dimly lit hallway. Their hearts were pounding anxiously, yet their movements were precise and unaffected. Quinn halted at the end of the hallway, using the wall to hide himself as he checked the intersecting hallway.

"Where are we going?" Rashel whispered. She followed Quinn's leads, trying to keep her defense up as much as she could in this unfamiliar place. She should've studied the blueprints of this damned building. It would've given her the _tiniest_ sense of safety.

"The garage," Quinn answered. He didn't glance back, didn't even look at her. He knew that she could handle anything that would come her way. And she knew that he knew that. "We're almost there," he told her. And they were; just a few more steps—

"_Quinn_—"

Quinn glowered and instantly made a move to knock out the guard who just opened the door to the garage. The guard, astonished by the attack, didn't fight back—which made it easier for Quinn to knock him out. The guard fell with a loud _thud_ on the greasy staircase leading down to the garage. Rashel hurried to reach for the unconscious guard. She sent a look to Quinn.

"Asshole, what if there were people down there?" she hissed, struggling to keep the guard's weight on her. "Let's put him in a cabinet or—"

"Use your brain, _cop_," Quinn snapped, grabbing the guard from her. "If he wakes up, then he'd tell Hunter." He started moving down the garage, grabbing a key from the bronze key holder hanging on the wall. "Catch," Quinn stated before throwing the keys to Rashel. "It's that normal looking car over there on the left," he said.

Rashel gazed at it, and hell, it was far from normal. It was a freaking black _Lamborghini_ for fuck's sake! However, compared to the other flashy cars, it was the only one with the normal doors. And rims. She looked over her shoulder as she started the car. "Come on, hurry!"

Quinn grumbled and pushed the guard into a custodial closet across the Lamborghini, pulling out his gun from his holster.

"What are you _doing_?" Rashel immediately asked, once she saw him pull out the gun.

"I'm killing him," Quinn snapped. "I never liked this fucker anyway." And he shot him on the head. There was blood on his shirt, blood on the tip of his chin . . . Rashel couldn't look at Quinn. Quinn locked the custodial door, rushing towards the driver's seat as Rashel slid over to the passenger's seat.

"Alright, put your seatbelt on. This is going to be a rough ride," Quinn said, stepping on the acceleration before Rashel could even put her seatbelt on properly. The sudden acceleration jerked her back to the seat, her hand fumbling to lock her onto the seatbelt. The garage door was moving too slowly, so halfway up, Quinn burst through the door and began speeding through the large though empty mass of Hunter's property.

"The main entrance is the gate," Quinn started, "but the gate has to be managed—by the guards. And the gates are iron. Or metal. But either way, if we just speed through those, we'd die. Or get our current transportation crushed."

Rashel kept her eyes trained ahead, the views on her peripheral vision blurring as they sped through. Damn it, Hunter's place was _huge_. "There's another way, isn't it?"

"There's always another way," Quinn replied with a tiny smirk. He could see the fences approaching quickly. Rashel's eyes narrowed.

"If we pass through there, they'd know that we—"

"They'd know sooner or later. Plus, do you know any other way?" Quinn asked, breaking through the fences with a laugh. A crazy, lunatic-like laugh.

She didn't answer. Horrible ringing started behind them, and Rashel twisted in her seat—only to see blinking lights.

"Alarms," Quinn informed her. He glanced at the digital clock of the car. "We've got half an hour, more or less, to hide."

"Where are we going?" she asked. Rashel didn't acknowledge the fact that she asked this question multiple times in the same night. She simply didn't like _not_ knowing what to do, where to go, what the outcome would be—because whenever she didn't know something, it ends very badly.

"Somewhere far," he replied, making the Lamborghini faster. His eyes were hard, calculating; like earlier this morning, when he told her that he'd bust her out. Remembering this morning made her heart flutter slightly, but she slipped her hand in her holster to feel the cool butt of her gun in order to remind her what she was doing this for.

I'm coming back for you guys, Rashel thought while watching the side mirror, waiting for cars to appear.

Twenty minutes later, after speeding into the dark, into the seemingly deserted streets, they see cars. And multiple of them.

"Listen," Quinn said, forcing the car to move faster. Rashel felt like the car was going to burn its wheels soon, "This is a great time to show off your skills, cop."

Rashel pulled out her gun from her holster, the adrenaline suddenly rushing through her veins, radiating from her body. "I hope you've got lots of time then," _because I'm going to show off a lot_. Quinn laughed again, that same wild laugh he let out earlier on, but this time, Rashel felt herself smiling just as fanatically as she initiated a gun fight with Hunter's minions.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: ok, not my best. But I'm rusty, and it's been AGES since I wrote. I know that I used lots of words repeatedly and I'm truly sorry! But just a few minutes ago, I was inspired by the awesome xXlamia vampressXx so I just **_**had**_** to write. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this and are still reading this story! If not, well, I'm still gonna be writing. :) I love you guys :) Thanks so much for everything!**


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